
















































































































































































































































































TRAVELS IN ITALY. 






TRAVELS IN ITALY, 

THE ALPS, 

AND THE RHINE, 


BY 


V y 

J. T. HEADLEY. 

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■> J 

A * V 


DUBLIN: 

PUBLISHED BY JAMES M’GLASHAN, 
21, d’olier street. 


MDCCCXLIX. 





















T> ^ !1 

’ H^35 






















l'■>e r.fc)o' y In s*. o J . B & ■ iirat 
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PREFACE. 


The accompanying Letters were not originally written with 
the intention of being published in a book, and very probably 
would have been worse written if they had been. In passing 
through Italy, one is constantly subjected to sudden and great 
transitions of feeling. The “ classic land” and the “ home of 
the Caesars,” have so long been a portion of the scholar’s 
dreams, and so brightly coloured with his own feelings, that 
the very matter-of-fact objects that stare him in the face, 
when he is expecting some hallowed monument of the past, 
will often quite upset his gravity, and compel him to laugh, 
where he thought to have been serious and reflective. It has 
been my effort in these Letters to give a faithful transcript of 
my feelings, in all these sudden transitions. To some there 
may often appear too much lightness and frivolity. For our¬ 
selves, we like to have a man give himself in his travels—we 
wish to hear him soliloquising—and we read his book not to 
learn that he can be, or is, a very serious and profound man, 
but to know how things struck him—that is, travel with him. 
Amid the new and exciting scenes that constantly meet travel¬ 
lers, in perhaps a hurried passage over a country, they cannot, 
and do not, have the views and feelings so often given, for 
appearance' sake, as their honest ones. 

Our purpose has been to let others, if possible, look through 
our eyes; and whether we have succeeded or not, or whether 
they would have obtained a very interesting view if they did 3 



PREFACE, 


• • • 

Vlll 

we leave the reader to judge. Descriptions of galleries of 
art, paintings, &c., have been avoided, as possessing interest to 
those only who have travelled over the same ground, and be 
come familiar with the details necessary to make those 
descriptions clear. We have attempted, also, to give some 
idea of the condition of the inhabitants, especially of the 
lower classes, as they are topics seldom referred to in passing 
over the most classic land on the globe. 




CONTENTS. 


Page. 

I. Voyage to Italy—Man Lost Overboard ... 13 

II. Gibraltar—Approach to Genoa. 20 

III. First Impressions—Lunatics . 22 

IV. Description of Genoa . .. 26 

V. House-Hunting—Romantic Marriage ... 29 

VI. Funeral in the Morning—Murder of an 

American Officer ... ... ... 33 

VII. Carnival — Clara Novello—Persecution of a 

Painter . 38 

VIII. Columbus’ Manuscripts—Horseback Ride— 

Death in the Theatre . 41 

IX. A Day’s Ramble through Genoa . 45 

X. Italian Soirees and Beauty — Marquis of 

Palavicini . 51 

XI. Odd Brokers—A Catholic Miracle ... 5(5 

XII. Lord Byron—Marquis Di Negro ... 60 

XIII. Soldiers at Mass— Casino—Italian Virtue ... 66 

XIV. Scenes of the Carnival—Cheating the Church 70 

XV. Leghorn—Civita Vecchia—Naples ... 73 

XVI. Pompeii 7S 

XVII. Ascent of Vesuvius . Si 

XVIII. Ladies of Italy and Ladies of America ... 91 

XIX. Islands about Naples—Virgil’s Scenes ... 97 

XX. A Visit to Salerno—Prnstnm . 102 

XXI. Ca3tellamare—A Storm at Naples ... 108 



CONTENTS. 


k 

Page. 

XXII. Capua—A Begging Friar—Cenotaph of Cicero 

A Peasant Girl . 112 

XXIII. Approach to Rome—St. Peter’s . 116 

XXIY. Saturday before Easter—Easter Sunday 119 

XXV. Illumination of St. Peter’s—The Girandola 125 

XXVI. Chaunting of the Miserere in the Sistine 

Chapel . 132 

XXVII. System of Farming in the Papal States ... 137 
XXVIII. The Coliseum at Midnight . 141 

XXIX. Ruins and Epitaphs .146 

XXX. Capitol and Vatican . 149 

XXXI. The Pope—Don Miguel—Mezzofanti ... 152 

XXXII. New Mode of Selling Milk—Lake Tartarus— 

Adrian’s Villa—Tivoli . 155 

XXXIII. An Improvisatrice—Ascent of St. Peter’s ... 161 

XXXIV. Artists’ Fete .165 

XXXV. Villa Pamphylia—Vespers—Borghesian Villa 
—The Quirnal—Tasso’s Oak—Farewell to 

St. Peter’s . 171 

XXXVI. Departure from Rome—Peppery Englishman 178 

XXXVII. Fall of Terni .183 

XXXVIII. Perugia—Clitumnus—Battle-Field of Thrasy- 

mene .. ... 186 

XXXIX. A Man Built in a Wall . 191 

XL. American Artists in Florence. 196 

XLI. Venus di Medici—Titian’s Venuses—Death of 

a Child—An English Family . 202 

XLII. Stroll through Florence—Dominican Friar 205 

XLIII. Pisa—Condition of Italian Peasantry—Con¬ 
versation with a Peasant Girl ... 208 

XLIV. King of Sardinia—Censorship of the Press— 

Smuggling Priest ... ..213 

XLV. Allessandria—Battle-Field of Marengo—Pavia 

—Milan . 215 

XLVI. Character of the People of Italy.218 


c ** 


PART II 


Page. 

Introduction .223 

I. Pass of the Simplon, Gorge of Gondo ... 225 

II. Passes of the Forclaz and Col de Balme ... 231 

III. Ascent of the Montanvert, Yale of Chamouni 236 

IY. Pass of the T6te Noire . 241 

Y. Baths of Leuk .244 

YI. The Castle of Chillon—Geneva—Junction of the 

Phone and Arve . 247 

YII. Freybourg Organ and Bridges—Swiss Peculiari¬ 
ties ... ... ... ... ... 253 

YIII. Interlachen—Pass of the Wengern Alp—Byron’s 

Manfred 259 

IX. The Grand Scheideck : an Avalanche ... 266 

X. Yalley of Meyringen—Pass of Brunig ... 271 

XI. Suwarrow’s Passage of the Pragel . 275 

XII. Macdonald’s Pass of the Splugen ... 279 

XIII. The Eighi Culm .288 

XIY. Goldau—Fall of the Eossberg . 294 

XY. Avalanches and Glaciers, their Formation and 

Movement 299 

XYI. Pasturages, Chalets, and Alpine Passes ... 302 

XYII. A Farewell to Switzerland—Basle. 306 

XYIII. Strasbourg—The Rhine—Frankfort ... 310 

XIX. A Day in Wiesbaden 314 

XX. Schwalbach and Schlagenbad ... ... 321 



XII 


CONTENTS 


Pass. 

XXI. Mavence—The Rhine ... . 325 

XXII. The Castellated Rhine 328 

XXIII. The Rhine from Coblentz to Cologne ... 334 

XXIV. Rhine Wines—Cologne Cathedral—Louvain— 

Brussels 339 

XXV. Battle-Field of Waterloo . 343 


TRAVELS IN 


ITALY. 




I. 


A Voyage to Italy. Sea-Sickness. Squalls. A Man Lost Overboard, 

Peril of the Crew. 


At Sea, Sept. 15,1842. 

Dear, E.—Why not begin ray letter at sea ? It is 
now no more travel-worn than Arabia Petraea. I hate 
this skipping over the ocean as “ not worth mentioning” 
to burst on the reader from the middle of some Con¬ 
tinent. 

It was a beautiful day when we left New York, but it 
did seem cruel that you were not there to bid me good¬ 
bye. The laughter and mirth amid which my fancy 

painted you, your wife, and cousin A-at Saratoga, 

seemed a mockery of my grief, as I floated away from 
the shore on which my heart lay, and refused to come to 
me. But when the pilot-boat left us, and the last thread 
of communication was cut off between me and the land 
that never seemed so dear before, I thought perhaps after 
all it was better to part so. It was easier to fling you 
an adieu up the Hudson, than to squeeze your hand over 
the vessel’s side, when the tongue could not utter the 
farewell the heart spoke so loudly the while. 

Our vessel was a beautiful Mobile Packet, and Mr. 
L., consul to Genoa, his wife, two children, myself, 
and a servant, constituted one family, and the entire 

corps of passengers, with the exception of Mr. S-, of 

New York, who, like myself, was in search of health. 
We sat grouped on deck, trying to laugh and appear in.- 




u 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


different, but it would not do. It was like boys whist¬ 
ling in the dark to keep off danger. But the over¬ 
whelming grief I expected to feel as I saw the last blue 
hill of my father-land sink into the western sky, never 
came. Nothing ever seemed to me more poetic or pathetic 
than Byron’s farewell to the land of his birth : 


“ Adieu, adieu—my native land 
Fades o’er the waters blue,” Ac. 

And as I saw the dim shores die away in the distance, I 
expected the thousand fond recollections of home and its 
quiet joys, perhaps to be mine no more forever—the deep 
yearning of heart toward the land I had trod from my 
infancy, and now left an invalid, together with the un¬ 
certainty and solitude of the sea, would quite unman me. 
But nothing could be farther from the truth. The sadness 
I had felt when drifting down the bay was fast disap¬ 
pearing ; and the slow, heavy rolling of the vessel, soon 
after we were fairly at sea, brought on that strange sen¬ 
sation in one’s head and stomach which entirely upsets 
his poetry—and by the time iVewer-sink began to sink 
beyond the waters, I cared for neither home nor country. 
Yet as the setting sun left his farewell on the waters, and 
the blue sky seemed to bend so lovingly over the land I 
loved, I thought it was quite too Pagan to feel no sadness. 
So I began to repeat to myself those sweet lines of Byron, 
but I made more rhymes than the illustrious poet himself. 
If uttered aloud they would have run: 


“ Adieu, adieu—my native land (ugh, ugh,) 
Fades o’er the waters blue.” (ugh.) 


I could get no farther, and even when the broad round 
moon rode up the gorgeous night-heavens, making the sea 
a floor of silver, the effort was no more successful. Not 
the sweet moon and sweeter stars, nor the broad heaving 
sea, nor fading Never-sink itself could whip up any sen¬ 
timent. I fully agreed with Plato for the time that the 
soul was located in the stomach—at least they sympa¬ 
thized like two brothers. For a whole week we were a 
most dolorous group. The ladies below sat around the 
cabin, pale and languid—the two gentlemen above lay 
rolled up like caterpillars, to die. Sometimes stretched 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


15 


out in the jolly boat, sometimes on the rail, I would watch 
by the hour the passing clouds to escape the dizziness 
created by the rolling of the ship. 

“ A life on the ocean wave” is a pleasant thing to sing 
about, especially if you are in a snug warm room and 
have Russell to sing, but those who try it find the chorus 
has never yet been written. 

The sleeping, or rather not sleeping, in a miserable 
berth six feet by two, holding on to the one above you to 
prevent being thrown out—the eating like an Eastern 
devotee bowing over his sacrifice—the pitching and 
tossing of the ship against a head wind on the heavy 
breakers—the long, monotonous days, and often restless 
nights—the wearisome calms and fearful storms, and 
more than all the yearning after the green quiet earth, 
make a sea-voyage irksome and sickening. It is true 
there is some relief to this. There is a beauty at times in 
the ocean, in its changes and caprices, that break its 
otherwise insufferable tedium. I think I have never 
enjoyed mere life more keenly, than when sitting in a 
clear day far out on the flying jib-boom, I have careered 
with the careering vessel, and looking back a-down the 
keel, watched the waters part and foam away from the 
cleaving bows. Next to this I love, when the sea is 
“gently rough,” to sit on the topmost yard, and look 
abroad on the great solemn ocean, and catching the dim 
outlines of the vessels that are hovering on the edge of 
the horizon, send down “ Sail ho,” to the dreaming group 
on deck. It is pleasant also to lean over the taffrail and 
watch the rainbow-dolphin slowly swimming after the 
vessel, or the porpoises floundering ahead, while perhaps 
the black fin of a shark is combing the water in the 
distance. A clear evening on the quarter deck is sweet, 
when the moist south wind just fills the sails that are 
gently swelling in the light of the moon, and the bright 
sparkles here and there on the water seem the twinkling 
of the feet of fairies abroad on their nightly revels. There 
is a sense of freedom too at sea. The jostling multitude 
—the jar of wheels, and the clamours of money-mad men, 
are not around. The heart is not compelled to retire 
within itself lest its feelings should be detected, and its 
emotions mocked. There are also time and room enough 
to think. Everything seems at leisure—even the waves 
when most excited have a stately motion. But these 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


Vj 

pleasures are all transient, and then comes the long pining 
after the fresh earth. 

The pleasure of our passage was much marred by the 
loss of a man overboard. When within a few hundred 
miles of the Azores, we were overtaken by a succession 
of severe squalls. Forming almost instantaneously on 
the horizon, they moved down like phantoms on the ship. 
For a few moments after one struck us, we would be 
buried in foam and spray, and then heavily rolling on a 
heavy sea. We, however, prepared ourselves, and soon 
got everything snug. The light sails were all in—the jibs, 
top-gallants and spanker furled close—the main-sail 
clewed up, and we were crashing along under close 
reefed topsails alone, when a man, who was coming down 
from the last reef, slipped as he stepped on the bulwarks, 
and went over backwards into the waves. In a moment 
that most terrific of all cries at sea, “ A man overboard! 
a man overboard!” flew like lightning over the ship. I 
sprung upon the quarter deck just as the poor fellow, 
with his “ fearful human face,” riding the top of a billow, 
fled past. In an instant all was commotion : plank after 
plank was cast over for him to seize and sustain himself 
on, till the ship could be put about and the boat lowered. 
The first mate, a bold, fiery fellow, leaped into the boat 
that hung on the side of the quarter deck, and in a voice 
so sharp and stern I seem to hear it yet, shouted, “ in 
men—in men!” But the poor sailors hung back—the sea 
was too wild. The second mate sprung to the side of 
the first, and the men, ashamed to leave both their officers 
alone, followed. “ Cut away the lashings,” exclaimed 
the officer—the knife glanced around the ropes—the boat 
fell to the water—rose on a huge wave far over the deck, 
and drifted rapidly astern. I thought it could not live a 
moment in such a sea, but the officer who held the helm 
was a skillful seaman. Twice in his life he had been 
wrecked, and for a moment I forgot the danger in ad¬ 
miration of his cool self-possession. He stood erect—the 
helm in his hand—his flashing eye embracing the whole 
peril in a single glance, and his hand bringing the head of 
the gallant little boat on each high sea that otherwise 
would have swamped her. I watched them till nearly 
two miles astern, when they lay-to to look for the lost 
sailor. Just then I turned my eye to the Southern horizon 
and saw a squall blacker and heavier than any we had 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


17 


before encountered rushing down upon us. The Captain 
also saw it, and was terribly excited. He afterwards 
told me that in all his sea life he never was more so. He 
called for a flag, and, springing into the shrouds, waved 
it tor their return. The gallant fellows obeyed the signal 
and pulled for the ship. But it was slow work, for the 
head of the boat had to be laid on to almost every wave. 
It was now growing dark, and if the squall should strike 
the boat before it reached the vessel, there was no hope 
for it. It would either go down at once, or drift away 
into the surrounding darkness, to struggle out the night 
as it could. I shall never forget that scene. All along 
the southern horizon between the black water and the 
blacker heavens was a white streak of tossing foam. 
Nearer and clearer every moment it boiled and roared on 
its track. Between it and us appeared at intervals that 
little boat like a black speck on the crest of the billows, 
and then sunk away apparently engulfed for ever. One 
moment the squall would seem to gain on it beyond the 
power of escape, and then delay its progress. As I stood 
and watched them both, and yet could not tell which 
would reach us first, the excitement amounted to perfect 
agony. Seconds seemed lengthened into hours. I could 
not look steadily on that gallant little crew now settling 
the question of life and death to themselves and perhaps 
to us, who would be left almost unmanned in the middle 
of the Atlantic, and encompassed by a storm. The sea 
was making fast, and yet that frail thing rode it like a 
duck. Every time she sunk away she carried my heart 
down with her, and when she remained a longer time than 
usual, I would think it was all over, and cover my eyes 
in horror—the next moment she would appear between 
us and the black rolling cloud literally covered with foam 
and spray. The Captain knew, as he said afterwards, 
that a few minutes more would decide the fate of his 
officers and crew. He called for his trumpet, and spring¬ 
ing up the rattlings, shouted out over the roar of the blast 
and waves, *• Pull away , my brave bullies , the squall is 
coming—give way my hearties /” and the bold fellows did 
ie give way ” with a will. I could see their ashen oars 
quiver as they rose from the water, while the life-like 
boat sprung to their strokes down the billows, like a 
panther on the leap. On she came, and on came the 
B 


18 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


blast. It was the wildest struggle I ever gazed on, but 
the gallant little boat conquered. Oh, how my heart 
leaped when she at length shot round the stern, and 
rising on a wave far above our lee quarter shook 
water from her drenched head as if in delight to find he 

^The^S were fastened, and I never pulled with such 
right good will on a rope as on the one that brought that 
boat UP the vessel’s side. As the heads of the crew ap¬ 
peared over the bulwarks, I could have hugged the brave 
fellows in transport. As they stepped on deoek, not a 
question was asked—no report given—but Foiward, 
men!” broke from the Captain’s lips. The vessel was 
trimmed to meet the blast, and we were again bounding 
on our way. If that squall had pursued the course of all 
the former ones, we must have lost our crew, but when 
nearest the boat (and it seemed to me the foam was break¬ 
ing not a hundred rods off) the wind suddenly veered, 
and held the cloud in check, so that it swung round close to 
our bows. The poor sailor was gone ; he came not back 
again. It was his birth-day (he was 25 years old), and 
alas, it was his death-day. Whether, a bold swimmei, 
he saw at a distance his companions hunting hopelessly 
for him, and finally with his heart growing cold with des¬ 
pair, beheld them turn back to the ship, and the ship it¬ 
self toss its spars away from him for ever, or whether the 
sea soon took him under, we know not. YV e saw him no 
more—and a gloom fell on the whole ship. There were but 
few of u s in all, and we felt his loss. It was a wild and 
dark night; death had been among us, and had left us 
with sad and serious hearts. And as I walked to the 
stern, and looked back on the foam and tumult of the 
vessel’s wake, in which the poor sailor had disappeared, 

I instinctively murmured the mariner’s hymn, closing 
with the sincere prayer— 

« Oh sailor boy, sailor boy ! peace to thy soul IP 

At length the winds lulled, the clouds broke away, and 
a large space of blue sky and bright stars appeared over¬ 
head. The dark storm-cloud hung along the distant 
horizon, over which the lightning still played, while e 
distant thunder broke at intervals over the deep. The 
black ocean moaned on in its heavy sobbings, the drenched 
and staggering ship rolled heavily on its restless bosom, 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


10 


and the great night encompassed all. This was solitude 
so deep and awful that my heart seemed to throb au¬ 
dibly in my bosom. My eye ached with the effort to 
pierce the surrounding darkness, and find something to 
relieve the loneliness of the scene. At length the rising 
moon showed its bright disc over a cloud, tinging its black 
edge with silver, and pouring a sea of light on a sea of 
darkness, till the waves gleamed and sparkled as if just 
awakened to life and hope. The moon never looked so 
lovely before; it seemed to have come out in the heavens 
on purpose to bless and to cheer us. 

In a few days more we made the Azores, and then 
came long, wearisome calms, that were infinitely worse 
to bear than the storms. After lying for several days “ a 
painted ship on a painted ocean,” pining for action, or 
at least motion, I went in perfect despair to the fore¬ 
castle, and begged the sailors to give me some work. I 
would saw wood, turn grindstone, do anything, to 
break the dreadful apathy that had settled on the ship. 
I ground up every old axe and knife and tool that was 
on board. I was amply repaid, not only by the elasticity 
of feeling I gained, but in the knowledge I acquired of 
sailors’ character. There was one tall, lank, regular 
Yankee among the crew, with a roguish twinkle to his 
small, half concealed eye, that told of many a sly trick. 
Whenever he left the wheel to go forward and I was on 
the quarter-deck, he would invariably, as he passed me, 
roll an enormous quid of tobacco from his mouth into 
one hand, and, fetching it a box with the other, send it 
far over the rail into the sea, and, at the same time, 
thrust his tongue into the vacant place, and toss me one 
of the drollest winks that ever set a theatre in a roar. 
One day I saw him making mats for the yards out of the 
ends of old ropes. “ Well,” said I, “ George, so yon 
keep to work.” <( Yes,” he replied, iC there is no rest for 
poor Jack; if he can’t play the Jarman flute he must 
whistle ”—i. e., if he can’t do one thing, he must another. 
Poor Jack ! his lot is a hard one. 

Yours, &c. 


20 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


II. 


The Straits and Rock of Gibraltar—Gulf of Genoa, &e. 


Genoa, October, IS42. 

One morning we were awakened by the cry of land, and 
as I stepped out of the cabin, the ragged mountains of 
Africa, the shores of Spain, the Straits of Gibraltar, and 
over all the glorious rising Sun burst on the sight, me 
steady current was setting rapidly for the Mediterranean, 
and all was silent around save the low crushing sound a 
heavy tide makes in its passage. The smoke that rose 
from burning timber on the hill tops and along the shore, 
gently inclined towards the Straits as if inviting us to 
enter, while over all was that dreamy haze which 
smoothes even the roughest scenery into a quiet aspect. 
Our keel cut the waters where rode the keels ot Lord 
Nelson’s fleet before the battle of Trafalgar. Land was 
for a moment forgotten as my fancy painted the line-of- 
battle ships slowly moving to the conflict. I saw, or 
thought I saw the long row of banners floating in the 
breeze, the cloud of smoke as broadside after broadside 
thundered over the sea. There were the broken and 
shivered masts dangling amid the ropes, the cries of men, 
the roll of the drum, and the confused noise of battle. 
The mountains were alive with fearful echoes, and the 
waves ran blood. The cheerful voice of Mrs. L. beside 
me called back my erring fancy, and the quietness of a 
summer morning rested on all the scene. Whether it 
was owing to the fresh view of land, or the beauty of 
the day, or the scene itself, I know not, but that day was 
one of enchantment to me. Its remembrance is more 
like a rich dream than a past experience. There was a 
combination of scenery, a succession of sensations fol¬ 
lowed by rapid associations that bore me away for a 
time like a child. I surrendered my heart to its impulses 
and let it regulate its own beatings. Distant mountains 
burying their heads in the smoky sky; towers, fortresses, 
abrupt rocks, smiling villages; vineyards in which 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


21 


nestled white cottages; a continent on either hand and 
the blue Mediterranean before me ; all coming or passing 
on my sight, and shifting every moment, made it seem 
like a wizard land. At length Gibraltar—that grey old 
solitary rock—stood before me. Lying somewhat 
diagonal to the straits, and apparently isolated from the 
main land, it rose almost perpendicularly 1470 feet above 
me, cutting with its thin naked ridge the air in an 
irregular waving line. 

As we passed it, the booming of cannon came over 
the water and died away on the shore of Africa. That 
rock was to me for a while the centre of association. 
Grand and gloomy it stood and had stood while ages had 
slowly rolled away—itself alone unchanged. It once 
looked down on the Roman galleys and on the vessel 
that bore Caesar and his fortunes on. It had seen the 
pride of nations come and go with the same haughty in¬ 
difference. It took no note of time, for time left not its 
mark upon it. 

Its stern gravity had not changed with changing em¬ 
pires. It had felt the shock of cannon, and the hot 
meeting of foes had made its sides red with the blood of 
men, and yet it retained its old composure. As I 
looked on its grey top, it seemed conscious of its own 
greatness, and to utter a silent mockery on the pride of 
man. 

The night came, and with the full moon over our heads, 
on her way to the mountains of Grenada, we fled over 
the blue waters of the Mediterranean. Islands came and 
went—days and nights vanished away, till, with the 
mountains of Piedmont on our left, we slowly passed up 
the gulf of Genoa. One morning found us within a few 
miles of the city, and the approach to it fully sustained the 
character it had borne. The rising sun glided the tops of 
the Apennines before us, and threw its light on the snow- 
clad summits of the Alps on our left, that lay pale, and 
white, and silent far up in the heavens.—The shores on 
either hand that bent up to the city were lined with 
villages—the back-ground of hills was belted with vine¬ 
yards, and dotted with white churches and palaces; while 
far away before us mountain interlocked mountain, each 
naked ridge crowned with a fortress, and receding away 
till a sea of summits flowed along the distant sky. At 
the base was Genoa, i la superba? throned like a queen 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


22 

upon her hills and looking down upon the sea. The city 
lies in the form of a half circle, and rises away from the 
shore like an amphitheatre. There is no plain, and it is 
but a short distance from the shore to the base of the hills. 
These are cultivated to their very tops, and literally 
covered with terraced gardens and palaces. As we drew 
near the fragrance that fell down to the water was like 
the mingling of all sweet scents. This may seem 
almost a fancy sketch, but the first impressions, after a 
six weeks’ voyage, of one of the lovelist scenes the sun 
ever shone upon, must be vivid but not necessarily over¬ 
wrought. It was a holiday when we entered port, and 
added to all this beauty and sweetness, the chime of 
a hundred bells came merrily down to the bay. 

Yours, &c. 


III. 

First Impressions. An Italian Woman. Lunatics. 

Genoa, October. 

Dear E.—I cannot convey to you the strange feelings 
with which I first stepped on a foreign shore, and that 
shore, Italy. When one goes to Europe through England, 
he is gradually prepared lor the strong contrast between 
his own country and the countries he visits. But I had 
no preparation ; the last thousand miles of sea were just 
like the first thousand, and I had simply taken one step, 
and had passed from New York, with its English lan¬ 
guage and home habits, into Genoa, with its queer cus¬ 
toms and unintelligible jaron. Everything was changed 
so suddenly, that I wandered about like one in a dream. 
Now a tall moustached officer, wrapped in his long mili¬ 
tary cloak, would meet me, and eye me askance as he 
passed; and now a black-robed priest shuffled by, not 
deigning me even a look as he went. How many times 
during the day have I stopped and questioned my own 
identity! 

The other day I was leaning over the balcony of our 
window at the hotel, watching the motley groups that 



TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


23 


passed and repassed, and listening to the strange Genoese 
jargon that every one seemed to understand but myself, 
when my attention was attracted by an elegantly dressed 
woman who was sauntering leisurely along up the street 
that my window faced. As she came near, her eye fell 
on me, and, her curiosity apparently excited by my 
foreign look, she steadily scrutinized me as she approach¬ 
ed. My appearance might have been somewhat outre 
but still I did not think it was worth such a particular 
scrutiny, especially from a lady. But she had not the 
slightest concern about my thoughts on the matter. She 
wished simply to gratify her own curiosity; so when she 
had got within the most convenient reconnoitering dis¬ 
tance, she deliberately paused, and lilting her quizzing- 
glass to her eye, coolly scanned me from head to foot. 
When she had finished, she quietly replaced her glass in 
her belt, and with a smile of self-satisfaction on her face, 
walked on. 

Yesterday I visited the Lunatic Asylum, which stands 
in a valley between the outer and inner walls of the 
city. In this part of the city, the inner walls seems 
to have been built against a high bank, on the top of 
which the houses stand. This is fortified, and the space 
left on the top furnishes a beautiful carriage way and 
promenade, carrying you out to where the wall rises 
directly out of the Mediterranean, and giving you a view 
of the whole of the Ligurian Bay. From this promenade 
you can look down into the area of the Asylum. The 
building itself you will understand by comparing it to a 
wheel; the centre building, oval in form, is the hub, from 
which radiate on every side, like spokes, six long build¬ 
ings. Around the extremities of these, passes a circular 
wall, making, of course, between these radiating wings, 
six triangular areas. In each of these areas a certain 
class of lunatics are allowed to range: the mild are put 
together, and the violent kept by themselves. If any one ’ 
becomes fractions, the strait-jacket is clapped on him, 
and he is turned loose again, with nothing but his tongue 
and feet free. Nothing can present the contrast of life 
stronger, than a stroll along this elevated promenade of a 
bright evening. The bright Mediterranean is sleeping 
like a summer lake as far as the eye can reach, and the 
feelings are lulled by the scene and the hour into tran¬ 
quillity, when suddenly the sabbath stillness of the soul 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


2i 

is broken by the scream of a maniac, raving below you. 
Leaning over the low parapet that guards this high wall, 
I often watch of an evening the laughing groups that fill 
the winding promenade before me, while shouts of mirth 
and bursts of music, coming at intervals on the night air, 
furnish straDge interludes to the wild and confused ac¬ 
cents that fill the valley at my feet. 

But I liked to have forgotten my visit to the interior 
of the building. The officer who showed me over it 
was a very civil man. The lower room of the central 
oval building is a chapel, into which the long halls from 
each of these wings enter. Among other peculiarities, I 
noticed one room with a wooden floor and billiard table 
in the centre. Inquiring the design of this, I was told it 
was built for any insane gentleman, who could afford his 
own servant, and thirty francs a month for the use of 
them. Love and religion appeared to be the predominant 
cause of insanity. A poor creature sitting by herself, and 
counting her beads, had gone mad on religion. Among 
the quiet class was a tall, fine, dark looking man, who 
slowly paced backwards and forwards, with his head 
bent and his lips compressed, carrying an open letter in 
his hand. The profoundest melancholy sat on all his fea¬ 
tures, and his tread was like that of a man to a funeral. 
In the full freshness and hope of life he had received by 
the same letter the news of the loss of his fortune, and 
the falseness of his bethrothed bride. His mind had stop¬ 
ped at the end of that letter, and had never advanced 
another step—the one terrible calamity it revealed, filled 
his mind for ever after. Standing on one of the windows, 
and looking down into the area of the incurables, I saw 
at the farther extremity, under a sort of shed, two heaps 
of rags, lying at a short distance from each other. They 
covered two women, who went every morning as soon as 
they were released from their cells, to the self-same spot, 
and there, crouching close under the wall, lay silent and 
motionless till aroused again by their keepers. The his¬ 
tory of one I could not learn. The other was the wife of 
a gentleman, and had been in the Asylum sixteen years. I 
inquired why the husband did not furnish her with bet¬ 
ter clothing ? The officer replied that he did, also paid a 
high price to have particular attention and service ren¬ 
dered her; but the moment decent apparel was placed 
on her, she became wild with passion and refused all con- 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


trol until it was removed. This told her story, before the 
keeper related it to me. Young, lovely, and fiery-hearted, 
she had given her affections and oath to one who was 
her inferior in rank. But marriage is contracted here by 
the parents, and the daughter has no more voice in it 
than she had in her creation. This young and passionate 
creature was thus bartered away. Usually in such cases, 
the woman considers herself sold by a mercenary parent, 
and clings to her lover, while she is willing her husband 
should also follow his inclinations. And when we re** 
member in what manner marriages are contracted in this 
country, looseness of morals in Italian women should 
cease to surprise us. Of more fiery blood than we, they 
must love somebody. Hence if married to a man they 
cannot love, they soon choose a lover. But I am forget¬ 
ting my poor lunatic. Her lover was a young and melan¬ 
choly creature, and his passion was of that silent, almost 
gloomy character, which always exalts or wrecks its 
victim. Without thinking of the future, he had cast 
every earthly hope—his entire being away upon this gay- 
hearted, high-spirited woman. The morning after she 
was led to the altar, she sat by her window with pale 
countenance and swollen eyes, watching his coming. 
But he came no more. The heavy hours wore on, and at 
length a messenger came and told her he was dead. The 
night that made her a wife, made him a corpse. He had 
driven a stilet tothrough his heart—and to render his 
death still more heart-breaking, he had not left her a 
single line. Gloomy and reserved in his life, he scorned 
to complain in his death. The young bride went into a 
paroxysm of grief; she tore the bridal dress from her 
bosom, and the garland from her hair, and went raving 
mad. The storm had its passage, but when it wore off, 
black inanity and speechless silence took its place. And 
now for sixteen years had she lived, with a dead heart 
in her bosom. The hair had whitened on her head, and 
the wrinkles deepened on her cheeks, yet she changed 
not. The buried heart found no resurrection. 

As I stood gazing on that motionless form, wondering 
if thought was still busy there through the long days, 
my attention was directed by a sudden cry below me. I 
looked down, and there stood a woman stretching her 
hands up towards the window, her face working with 
passion, and crying “ le chiavi , le chiavi” (the keys, the 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


26 

keys). The keeper was dangling the keys out of the 
window, and they caught her attention. With the sight 
of those keys came the remembrance of the solitary cell 
and its gloom. What a symbol of terror they were to 
her! 

I turned away, wrapt in reverie and sad at heart. 
Ah, happy is he, who can read the riddle of life, and 
make harmony and bliss out of its discord and suffering. 
But the throng of promenaders that soon surrounded me, 
and the excess of happiness that seemed on every side, 
completely upset the theory I had just commenced 

weaving. , , . 

’Tis midnight, and all is still as the moonlight sleeping 
on these old palaces—but now the chorus of some gay 
serenaders rings through the streets. The echoes sink 
and swell along these marble mountains, and I must 
stop and listen. Good night. 

Yours, &c. 


IY. 


Genoa. Its Streets. People. Mode of Life, &c. 

Genoa, October. 

Dear E.—I have been three weeks in Genoa, and I 
suppose I have not given you what is called a general 
description of the city. This I dislike most of all things, 
-—first, because it is indefinite ; second, because it is un¬ 
interesting. Genoa, as I stated in a former letter, lies 
in the form of a segment of a circle, and rises like an am¬ 
phitheatre from the sea. The ground on which it rests is 
irregular, and there is not a level or a straight street in it. 
They wind and twist about like alleys in every direction. 
Hence a stranger has peculiar sensations in first wander¬ 
ing over the city. Unable to see out at either end of the 
street, and from the immense height of the houses, rising 
70 or 80 feet on either side, unable to get an upper view, 
he feels at first as if treading the narrow passages of 
some dungeon, expecting every moment his path will 




TRAVELS IN ITALY. 27 

open into daylight and freedom, and yet finding himself 
over encompassed with dark grey walls. 

In some of these streets the sunlight never reaches the 
pavement, and in most of them the bats are flying at our 
dinner hour, which is three o’clock. Strada Balbi, Nuova 
and Nuovissima are magnificent streets, and lined with 
palaces almost the entire way. The wealth that built 
them was won from the East, by the commerce the 
Crusades opened into that country. With the exception 
of Venice there is no city in the world equal to Genoa in 
its palaces. There is but one public promenade, called 
the Aqua Sola. It lies on the verge of the city, and is a 
beautiful place of resort. It is elevated above the sur¬ 
rounding streets, covering several acres, and looks out 
upon the mountains of Piedmont and the Gulf of Genoa. 
The whole city is surrounded by two walls; one circling 
the city proper is six miles in circumference, the other 
going over the hills is thirteen miles long. The gates are 
strongly fortified and constantly guarded. The shops of 
the town possess scarcely any beauty: the largest could 
well nigh be put in the bow-window of a Broadway 
store. The basement stories of magnificent palaces are 
let out for hatters’ shops, livery stables, and indeed every¬ 
thing—a main entrance only being reserved. The upper 
rooms alone are occupied. Genoa contains about 100,000 
inhabitants, one-seventh of whom are soldiers and priests. 
They are called the Yankees of Italy. Their great fault 
is they will cheat. You cannot trust them. It has 
passed into a proverb that “ it takes seven Jews to cheat 
one Genoese. 

The females of the ordinary classes wear no bonnets 
in the streets, but in their stead a piece of muslin folded 
across the top of the head, called a mazzro, and descend¬ 
ing around the neck and over the shoulders in the form 
of a shawl. With only this protection, I have seen them 
lounging along the streets when the tramontane blowing 
fresh from the Alps made me shiver with my cloak 
wrapped close around me. The tramontane or north 
wind is very cold, and blows so furiously that ships lying 
in port are often compelled to heave out both a bow and 
stern anchor. But notwithstanding this and the vicinity 
of the mountains and the high latitude of Genoa, being 
above 44 degrees, there is no snow in winter, and the 
poorer classes do without fuel all the year round. This 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 



is partly owing to its dearness. Even the little neces¬ 
sary for cooking is hoarded with the greatest care. One 
day being in the country when a strong south-west wind 
was rolling a heavy surf on the shore, I saw groups of 
persons along the beach watching the approach of every 
wave, and, rushing after it as it retired, snatch something 
from the water. I could not imagine what prize could 
create so much interest. On approaching nearer I saw 
that the object of their eager struggles were small chips; 
some not bigger than half your hand, and small twigs 
the sea was throwing ashore. These they were gather¬ 
ing for fuel. So scarce and dear is it that none is used 
to heat water for washing clothes. They take all their 
garments out to the fresh streams, and on a pleasant day 
you will see groups of women from four to fifteen, lining 
the creek on every side of the city. They tuck their 
dresses up above the knees, and kneeling down among 
the pebbles, take one large smooth stone for a wash - 
loai’d, wrap it up in the article to be cleansed, and then 
begin to knead it. Although there is a great deal of 
wealth in Genoa, the poor are but little the better for it. 

The pay of a soldier is only a penny a day, and even 
the officers, most of whom are poor nobles, receive but 
two francs, or two francs and a half, per day. Notwith¬ 
standing all these difficulties, the common people seem 
contented and happy. There are no anxious brows as 
with us. Life and its obligations seem to sit lightly on 
an Italian. Each one being born into a rank, out of 
which it is difficult to rise, he makes no effort except to 
live. His anxieties seem to end with the gratification of 
his physical wants. He lives for the sake of living. He 
whistles care to the winds so long as he has food and 
clothing. With us each generation is placed in one 
grand race-course—the prize being for all. Hence life 
becomes one long fierce struggle for pre-eminence. The 
same reward being to the lowest that is extended to the 
highest, it lashes every man to his utmost energy. Ex¬ 
istence becomes a feverish excitement and the generation 
passes through life like a storm.—It is true “ mountains 
are levelled, and seas are filled in its passage,” but there 
has been no repose and but little contentment. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


29 


V. 


House-hunting. Romantic Marriage. Spanish Nobility. 

Dear E.— We have been house-hunting. Thinking it 

would be pleasanter to be in the country, L-has been 

ransacking the country round for a pleasant residence.— 
The Riviera, as it is called, or the shores of the Mediter¬ 
ranean, on either side of the city, furnishes the most 
charming place for country-seats in the world. The 
ground rises immediately from the sea, terraced, as it 
goes, into vineyards. After a vast deal of talking, riding, 
and seeing, L — — had finally concluded that one of two 
must be the choice; so the next day we all got into a 
carriage, and rode out to see the one on the east side 
of the city. Passing by the grand and little Paradises, 
we emerged on to the sea shore, and trotted away for 
Noli. 

The building was finely furnished and commanded a 
beautiful prospect, but the entrance to it was from a 

narrow street, and Mrs. L-threw in her veto (as all 

ladies in such circumstances, you know, have a right to 
do). There is quite a little romance connected with this 
building. It was formerly erected and owned by a 
wealthy man, who was in the habit of visiting a beautiful 
peasant girl in the neighbourhood. Pleased with his at¬ 
tention, she cast off, as ladies are very apt to do, the 
rustic lover she had before encouraged. But although 
her new admirer was frequent and steady in his visits, 
he never mentioned the subject of matrimony. Things 
went on in this way for three years, till one night the 
gentleman was startled, as he was about leaving the 
house, by the abrupt entrance of the two brothers of the 
inamorata, demanding that he should immediately marry 
their sister. They told him that he had visited her for 
three years, thus keeping away other suitors, and de¬ 
stroying all hopes of their sister’s marriage except with 
him: three years were quite long enough for him to 
make up his mind in, and as he had not done it, they had 




TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


30 

concluded to do it for him. This was bringing things to 
a focus he had not anticipated. For a man of wealth 
and station to marry a poor peasant girl, merely because 
he condescended to be smitten by her beauty, was some¬ 
thing more than a joke ; yet he saw at a glance that 
there was more meant by those brothers’ speech than met 
the ear—in short, that his choice was to be a marriage or 
a stiletto through his heart. This was reducing things- 
to the simplest terms; rather too simple for the wealthy 

admirer. . , 

The trembling, weeping girl, the bold, reckless bro¬ 
thers, and the embarrassed gentleman, must have formed 
a capital group in a peasant’s cottage. At length Signor 

-attempted to compromise the matter by saying 

that then was not the time, nor there the place, to cele¬ 
brate such a ceremony; besides there was no priest, and 
the proper way would be to talk over the subject toge¬ 
ther in the morning. One of the brothers leaned back 
and rapped slightly on a side-door; it opened, and a 
priest, with his noiseless, cat-like tread, entered^ the 
circle. “ Here is a priest,” said the brothers. There 

was a short interval of silence, when Signor-made 

a slight movement towards the door. Two daggers in¬ 
stantly gleamed before him. He saw that it was all 
over with him—that the three years of courtship were 
going to amount to something after all—and so yielded 
with as good grace as possible, and the nuptials were 
performed. Like a man of sense, he immediately placed 
his wife in a convent to be educated, while he, in the 
meantime, bought a title. Years passed by, and the 
ignorant peasant-girl emerged into the fashionable world 
an accomplished woman. She is now a widow, and is 
called the beautiful Countess of-. 

I was amused with an illustration of Italian character,, 
in an incident that occurred while visiting another house 
that the owners wished to let. A woman showed us 
over the rooms and grounds, whose manners were much 
superior to those of a servant, while her dress was not. 
As this service is usually done by servants, and indeed is 

one of the perquisites of their situation, L-supposed, 

of course, that a fee was expected. Having no small 
change, he asked me to give her some money ; but there 
was something about the woman that made me instinc¬ 
tively shrink from doing it, so I gave him the piece and 






TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


31 


he presented it to her. She coloured up to her very tem¬ 
ples, smiled in most charming confusion, and discerning, 
with a woman’s quick perception, the cause of the mis¬ 
take, began to apologise for her dress, saying we had 
taken her quite by surprise. After all possible apologies 

were made on our part, L-turned to me, with a most 

comical look, and said in English, “I mistrusted as 
much, but really we are not to blame; she need not dress 
so shockingly.” A minute after she disappeared, leaving 
us strolling in the garden, mortified at our mistake, and 
regretting the shock we had given the dear creature’s 
feelings. 

Judging her by ladies in general, we expected of course 
to see no more of her, and fancied her sitting within her 
room, looking the personification of contempt at our 
want of penetration. But silent contempt is not an 
Italian woman’s mode of revenge. To our surprise, just 
as we were leaving the gate, a cheerful voice called out 
to us, and lo! there came tripping up our abused lady, 
with some special information about the house, which she 
had forgotten to mention. The additional information , of 
course, was all smoke, but not so her personal appear¬ 
ance. In the short time she had been absent, she had 
doffed her sluttish apparel, especially the villanous hand¬ 
kerchief she had on her neck, and which would have 
ruined the beauty of Venus herself, and unpinned her 
raven curls, which were left floating coquettishly about 
her shoulders, and advanced, showing the most brilliant 
set of teeth, and smiling, oh! so naturally. The little 
witch knew she was handsome, and saw by our looks and 
most deferential air, that she had achieved a victory. She 
had doubled our mortification, and left us with the full 
belief that she was a downright handsome woman. 

This incident, trifling as it seemed, was a whole chap¬ 
ter on Italian character. An English or American woman 
would have treated the whole thing with sovereign con¬ 
tempt, and gained by it —nothing l for nobody but herself 
would have known it. An Italian woman has pride, but 
it works in an entirely different way. To her, dignity 
and woman’s rights are nothing ; but victory—everything ; 
and there is nothing she will not submit to, in order to 
gain it. 

To-day we have been to look at a palace, six miles dis¬ 
tant, on the other side of the city. It is now occupied 



32 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


by the family of an exiled Spanish duke, the duke himself 
having recently died. The entrance to it is through an 
iron gate, and up an avenue lined with hedges of box¬ 
wood and rows of trees. In front is a semicircular area 
filled with statuary, orange, lemon trees, and grape vines. 
You ascend by a flight of steps into the lower entrance, 
and then by a marble staircase into the grand reception 
room, which is hung round with old paintings. In one 
part of the building is a beautiful chapel. Entering at 
length the door of the sitting-room, we beheld the two 
daughters of the old duke at their work. They rose as 
we entered, and two more striking women I never met. 
They were dressed in deep mourning, and their raven hair 
was parted plain and smooth, over as polished brows as 
ever sculptor perfected. 

Near by stands the old palace of Prince Doria, empty, 
and fast sinking to ruins. The keeper of it found we 
were house-hunting and sent to have us look at his “pa- 
iazzo.” It was well worth seeing, both for its antiquity 
and noble name ; but the mirrors were marred, the paint¬ 
ings moth-eaten, the old furniture rotted away, and the 
whole interior so forlorn and ruinous, that it made me 
shudder to walk through it. Up the long avenue that 
stretched away below me, the mailed crusader had gal¬ 
loped on his war-steed, and the area under the window 
had been filled with shaking lances. Knights and war¬ 
riors had once made the room in which I sat ring with 
their revels. 

But while my fancy, as is usual in such cases, was gal¬ 
loping off at tip-top speed, it was suddenly brought to a 

dead stand-still, by L-’s quietly drawing himself up 

and asking the attendant if he did not think the price 
asked far the old concern was rather too high ? Shade 
of Don Quixote ! how knights, and high-born ladies, and 
fierce old crusaders, scampered away at that question! 

I sat down and laughed, till the old keeper thought I was 

demented. L . turned, half comical and half inquiring, 

towards me, and I exclaimed, “ Only think, Charlie—that 
old fellow is showing this old princely palace over to us 
two young republicans, with as much gravity and defer¬ 
ence as if the blood of a thousand kings flowed in our 
veins. Oh! money, thou leveller of kings : nay, thyself 

a king; 4 every inch a king!’ ” “ Well, J-” said my 

friend, “ how would you like it here, any how ?” “ Like 



TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


3S 


it!” said I, “ why, I should be frightened to death to stay 
here over night. I would no more sleep here, than I 
would sleep in a goblin castle. I should expect to sink 
through six or seven floors before morning, and finally 
Wake up a mile or two under ground.” 

The grounds of the palace, however, were magnificent, 
and the fountains, and orange groves in them, and quiet 
lakes, with their fairy islands and shady walks, were be¬ 
coming a prince’s retreat. You could walk miles under 
the shade of trees, amid fountains and statuary, without 
retracing the steps. 

To-night we have had a council over the different 
places of residence. They were all finally reduced to 

two, and the veto power lay of course in Mrs. L-’g 

hands. L-stoutly declared that my vote was worth 

nothing, as it would be thrown of course for the palace 

in which the two beautiful Spaniards were. Mrs. L-, 

however, decided on that herself, and so, as we say at 
home, the thing “ is fixed,” and we move our traps next 
week. 

Yours, &c. 


VI. 

Funeral in the Morning. Murder of an American Officer. 

Dear E. —We have been three weeks in our home, and 
a charming one it is for this country. The grounds are 
terraced up behind it to the top of a hill, where there is a 
semicircular area fringed with a hedge of box-wood, and 
filled with seats, designed for pic-nic parties. The view 
from this spot is like the vision of a dream-land. All the 
sea-shore is below you, dotted with white villages, and 
the bay stretches off into the open sea, while the snow¬ 
capped Alps are folding their summits together on the far 
distant heavens. Grape-covered walks interlace the 
grounds in every direction, and the yellow orange and 
lemon hang in profusion before our windows. The build- 
iDg has nearly thirty rooms in it, all furnished, and some 
c 






u 


TRAVELS IN ITALY, 


of them very richly, and the rent is a trifle over seventy- 
two pounds per annum; so break up your establishment 
in Broadway instanter —half its expense will enable you. 
to live here like a prince. 

It takes some time to accustom one’s self to these im¬ 
mense rooms. There are but three of us, and three 
servants, in all, and it seems impossible to expand our¬ 
selves to the size of the building. Mr. L., wife, and 
nurse, occupy rooms on one side of the house, while I am 
all alone on the other side. The slamming of the great 
doors, ringing through these immense halls as I go to 
bed, makes me nervous. I do not like things on so large 
a scale. Our dining-table is so immense, that we almost 
need a trumpet to hail each other across it. One of your 
snug American houses, made on purpose for comfort, is 
worth a dozen of them. 

The palace of the Marquis of Palavicini stands on a 
hill opposite us, the bells of whose chapel seem to take a 
peculiar pleasure in ringing after midnight. If the good 
Marquis expects to keep the saint for whose benefit they 
are rung, quiet in his grave, by these nocturnal rope- 
pullings, he must have a singular idea of the way dead 
folks sleep; yet I can almost forgive the disturbance, for 
the chimes will sometimes be so sweet and musical, that 
they mingle in my dreams, and sink away into my spirit 
like the memory of young joys. 

This morning I was awakened by that mysterious 
solemn chant heard nowhere but in Catholic countries; 
rousing me out of my sleep while my room was yet dark, 
it had an indescribable effect upon my feelings. I jumped 
out of bed, and throwing open the shutters, beheld a 
funeral train winding along through one corner of our 
garden—'their long wax tapers burning dimly in the grey 
twilight of morning. One of the peasantry had died, and 
the friends were bearing the corpse, wrapped in white, 
to a neighbouring church. Females, robed in white, 
with long white muslin shawls folded across the top of 
the head, and falling down over their shoulders, accom¬ 
panied the bier. The whole procession moved with a 
rapid step, while that strangely wild chaunt rose and 
fell in regular cadences on the air. It finally emerged 
from the vine-covered walks, and passing rapidly a 
bridge that spanned a rivulet at the bottom of the gar¬ 
den, disappeared oa the other side. I turned to my bed 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


35- 


again, but not to sleep. The ghostly chaunt awakening 
me out of my slumbers, had struck a superstitious chord 
in my heart, and that funeral train seemed to me like a 
visit and a warning from the spirit land, and left a sad¬ 
ness on me that I could not shake off. 

I left this letter unfinished to go to dinner, and while 
we were at table a carriage drove up, and a clerk of the 
Consular office was announced, bringing a note from the 
Vice-Consul, stating that our Mediterranean fleet had 
just arrived from Mahon. This was stirring news, and 
we were soon en route for Genoa. It was too late for 
the Consul to board the fleet officially, and so we met 
Commodore Morgan and his lady on the wharf. The 
fleet has left Mahon on account of the assassination of 
one of our midshipmen. The disbanded soldiers of the 
Spanish army are turned loose on the island, and become 
perfect cut-throats. The feeling among the officers 
against the government, on account of its perfect indif¬ 
ference to the murder, threatened serious disturbances, 
and the Commodore wisely resolved to leave. The mid¬ 
shipman, who was killed, seemed to have one of those 
mysterious warnings which sometimes paralyze the 
heart of the stoutest warrior just before an engagement. 
Owing to the lawless character of the inhabitants, the 
officers invariably wore side-arms when they went 
ashore. Young Morrison, the afternoon he went ashore, 
appeared unusually sad ; and just as he was about leaving 
the ship, the officer, who related to me the circumstances, 
told him he had better take his pistols with him. He shook 
his head, and said seriously he did not need them. “ But, 
surely,” said his friend, “you are not going to leave 
your sword behind.” He replied yes, and stepped into 
the boat. In the evening he was at a Cafe with several 
of the officers, and when they left, lingered behind a 
moment. The officers had not proceeded far, when (said 
my friend), “ I heard a shriek behind me. The next 
moment young M. rushed by, exclaiming, ‘ I am killed,’ 
and fell dead.” His friends rushed back to seize the 
assassin, but found only a large Spanish knife on the 
ground, covered with blood. The murderer had fled. 
He had evidently watched young M. coming out of the 
Cafe unarmed, and stepping up behind in the dark, 
pinioned him tight with one arm, while, with the other, 
he rapidly gave him three stabs in the heart. The next 


36 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


day it was discovered that M. had taken out his Bible 
before he went ashore, and read it, and inserted between 
the leaves a short will, or parting request to his friends, 
showing that he anticipated his death. So powerful and 
mysterious was this impression, that he took pains to 
leave all his weapons behind him. He seemed to regard 
his death as fixed among the unalterable decrees. He 
had had no quarrel, and probably the only reason the 
assassin attacked him was, that he found him alone and 
unarmed. 

Some would find in this an evidence of the truth of 
omens and warnings, but if we could look through the 
causes that led to the impressions in this case, we might 
find it based on a superstitious notion received in infancy, 
or an incident slight as the tick of the death-watch. It 
was of no consequence whether the cause of the im¬ 
pression was reasonable, or not—it led him to that care¬ 
lessness and neglect, which would probably have secured 
the death of any officer. 

20th.—To day I have been back in the mountains 
among the poorer peasantry. Houses are scattered all 
through the hills, with nothing but paths leading to them 
from the sea. Pigs and chickens have free access, and 
they are often the only inmates you see on the threshold. 
The situation of these hovels is highly picturesque. From 
the top of a ridge I would look down into a deep valley, 
and there, beside a brawling stream, all buried up in the 
vines, would nestle something that ought to have been a 
cottage, but which, alas, was a hovel. It is astonishing 
to see how the hill-sides in some places are cultivated. 
Patches, that look scarcely larger than the palm of your 
hand, spot the mountains in every direction. 

Chestnuts are quite a staple article for food. They are 
about three times as large as our chestnuts, and are eaten 
in almost every form, but usually roasted. They are 
are also pounded up, and cooked into a sort of pudding. 

In general, the peasantry are more chaste than the 
other classes of Italians. The seducer may roam among 
the nobility, and unless he treads on the toes of some 
peppery rival, acquires credit, rather than disgrace, by 
his conquests. But let him go among the peasantry, and 
his body will soon be found in the highway, with the 
marks of the knife on him. Among the poor, there are 
no matches of convenience, made by the parents, and 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


37 


in which virtue and love are entirely useless commodities. 
The peasant girl has nothing but her character to recom¬ 
mend her, and when that is gone, her hopes of marriage 
are gone. I must say, however, that selfishness seems to 
have as much to do with their chastity as virtuous 
principles, and perhaps more; for after marriage the 
same sensitiveness is not exhibited, and peccadilloes, and 
love affairs, are the source of endless quarrels, and often 
murders. 

21st.—Last night was a terrific night. An awful 
storm swept the sea and the shores. I stood by the 
window at midnight, and gazed off on the waves that 
almost washed the foot of the garden. Every few mo¬ 
ments the angry swell would fall in thunder on the 
beach, sending its foam to the roofs of the buildings that 
lined the shore. Perfect blackness would be resting on 
everything, when a sudden flash of lightning would light 
up the whole riviera and bay, while the masts of a vessel 
struggling against the blast were painted out distinctly 
against the clouds. While I was gazing on this war of 
the elements, suddenly over the roar of the waves, and in 
the intervals of the thunder, came the dull report of can¬ 
non. It was a signal of distress. Some vessel at a dis¬ 
tance was driving ashore, and that cannon-shot was her 
cry for help. Nothing can be sadder than to stand on 
land and hear above the tumult of the storm, the minute 
gun of distress at sea. The staggering ship—terror 
stricken sailors and the wild death before them, rush 
over the fancy with every shot. 

I have heard this morning that a Marseilles vessel was 
wrecked in the storm, but only two of the crew perished. 

Yours, &c. 


38 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


VII. 

The Carnival. Clara Novello. Isola the Painter, Ac. 

Genoa, 1843. 

The Carnival here, as in all Italian cities, is the gay sea¬ 
son of the year. Balls, routes, masquerades, follow each 
other in quick succession. The Opera is at its height, 
and the whole population throw off their cares, and laugh, 
and dance, and sing, as if the world were a flower garden 
and Italy the brightest bower within its borders. Clara 
Novello has been the Prima Donna for the last half of the 
Carnival. Rome and Genoa had both, as they thought, 
engaged her for the season; and hence, when each claimed 
her, there was a collision. The two governments took it 
up, and finally it was referred to the Pope. It was a 
matter of some consequence to his Holiness where the 
sweet singer should open her mouth for the season. In 
his magnanimity he decided she should stay at Rome. 
The managers, however, compromised the matter by each 
city having her half the time. She had formerly been 
exceedingly popular here; but, contrary to the will of 
the chief bass singer and the leader of the orchestra, she 
attempted at her first appearance an air unsuited to her 
voice, and which she was told she could not perform. 
Of course she failed, and was slightly hissed. Her Eng¬ 
lish blood* mounted at so unequivocal a demonstration 
of their opinion of her singing, and, Dido-like, bowing 
haughtily to the crowd, she turned her back on the au¬ 
dience and walked off the stage. The tenor and the bass 
both stopped—the orchestra stopped—indeed all stopped 
except the hissing , which waxed louder every moment. 
She was immediately taken to her rooms by the Police of 
the city, and for three days the gens-d’armes stood night 
and day at her door, keeping the fair singer a prisoner for 
her misconduct. This is a fair illustration of this govern¬ 
ment. Even an opera singer cannot pout without having 


* Her mother was an English woman. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


3D 

•the gens-d’armes after her. On the promise of good be¬ 
haviour, she was released from confinement and again 
appeared on the stage, where the good-natured, music- 
loving Italians hailed her appearance with deafening 
cheers, and repaid their want of gallantry with excess of 
applause. 

Poor Clara Novello is not the first who has suffered 
from the tyranny of this military despotism. The other 
day I went to see the first painter of Genoa. He is a 
young man, modest, amiable, and courteous—so much so 
that I became immediately deeply interested in him. His 
name is Isola. He, too, has fallen once under the ban of 
the government. Like all geniuses he loves liberty ; and 
the first great historical piece he painted, and on which 
he designed to base his claim to be ranked among the first 
artists of his country, was a represenfation of the last 
great struggle Genoa made for freedom. He showed me 
the design : in the foreground, with his horse fallen under 
him, struggled the foreign governor that had been imposed 
on the people, while the excited multitude were raining 
atones and missiles on him, and trampling him under foot. 
Farther back, and elevated on the canvass, stood the Mar¬ 
quis of Spinola, cheering on the people, one hand grasping 
the sword, the other waving aloft the flag of Freedom. 
Excited men were running hither and thither, through 
the crowded streets, and all the bustle and hurry of a 
rapid, heavy fight, were thrown upon the canvass. It 
was a spirited sketch, and one almost seemed to hear the 
battle cry of freemen and the shout of victory. Such a 
picture immediately made a noise in Genoa, where yet 
slumber the elements of a Republic. It was finished, and 
admired by all, and treasured by the painter. But one 
day, while Isola was sitting before it, contemplating his 
work, and thinking what corrections might be made, his 
door was burst open, and two gens-d’armes stood before 
him. Seizing the picture before his eyes they marched 
him off behind it, to answer for the crime of having 
painted his country battling for her rights. The painting 
was locked up in a room of the government, where it has 
ever since remained. Isola was carried between two 
gens-d’armes a hundred and twenty miles, to Turin, and 
thrown into prison. He was finally released, but his 
picture remains under lock and key. The government, 
however, has, in its magnanimity, condescended to per- 


iO 


TEAVELS IN ITALY. 


mit the artist to sell it to any one who will carry it out 
of the country. Where shall it go ? I would that some 
American might purchase it. I spoke with him on the 
subject, and sympathized with him on the wrongs he had 
suffered. I spoke to him of my country, and the sympa¬ 
thy such a transaction would awaken in every grade of 
society; and invited him to go home with me, where he 
could breathe free, and his pencil move free. I promised 
him a welcome, and a reputation, and a home in a re¬ 
public, whose struggle for freedom had never yet been in 
vain, and whose air would unfetter his spirit and expand 
his genius. 

Such language from a foreigner and a republican, he 
felt to be sincere. He turned his immensely large, black, 
and melancholy eyes on me, and attempted to reply. 
But his chin began to tremble, his voice (|uivered and 
stopped, his eyes filled with tears, and he turned away 
to hide his feelings. Oh, when I think of the cursed 
tyranny man practices on man—the brutal chain, Power 
puts on Genius the slavery to which a crowned villain 
can and does subject the noblest souls that God lets visit 
the earth I wish for a moment that supreme power 
were mine, that the wronged might be righted, and the 
noble yet helpless be placed beyond the reach of oppres¬ 
sion and the torture of servility. 

The police of this kingdom is Argus-eyed. Gens- 
d armes in disguise are in every coffee-house, and crowd, 
and party. T. wo nobles have lately been imprisoned for 
littering a few careless words. These spies of tyranny 
are dogging your footsteps when you least expect it, 
and report your words long after thev have been for- 
gotten by yourself.. So afraid is the king of the influence 
of republican principles, that he has despatched an order 
to his officers m Genoa to be on their guard and not be 
very familiar with the officers of our squadron. In con¬ 
sequence, many Genoese officers, who were exceedingly 

become sh y and distant. Only 
think of 60,000 soldiers to a population of about 400,000 
and for a territory about the size of New York» But 
these things will have an end. Dream as men will, the 
world is not merely marking time; it is onward with a 
steady step to some goal. 


Yours, &c. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


41 


VIII. 

Columbus’ Manuscripts. Ride on Horseback. Death in the Theatre, 

Genoa, January, 1843. 

Dear E.—We are back in Genoa. The coming on of 
the rainy season and the gay season together, made it 
very uncomfortable so far out of town. Besides, our 
fleet has moored itself for the winter in port, and many 
of its officers have their ladies with them, making quite 
an American society in the city. Our Charge at Turin 
and lady have also come down to spend a month or two, 
so that American stock is quite up in the market. Last 
night I was at a tea-party on board the flag-ship, in the 
captain’s cabin. There were eight or nine American 
ladies present, and nothing has reminded me so much of 
home since I left it. Commodore Morgan is a frank, 
brave and noble-hearted man, and every inch a sailor. 
He has unfortunately been laid up with the gout since he 
arrived, and hence seldom appears in society; but when 
he does, his soldier-like bearing attracts universal atten¬ 
tion. In the Tangier affair he has been more sinned 
against than sinning. Such officers also as Lieutenant 
Brown and Griffin, and others that might be named, are 
an honour to our flag wherever they carry it. I forgot 
to tell you that our “locum tenens ” is in Strata Balbi, 
nearly opposite the palace of the king ; nearer to it than 
I trust your house will ever stand to a royal palace—at 
least while it stands on American soil. 

Horseback riding along this riviera is perfectly de¬ 
licious. I do not wonder that Byron and Lady 
Blessington preferred to take their “tete-a-tete” on 
horseback along this magnificent sea-shore. Yesterday, 
towards evening, I took a gallop with Mr. Duralde, a 
grandson of Henry Clay, and extending our ride 
farther than we anticipated, we did not return till in the 
dusk of the evening. Being somewhat in a hurry, we 
entered the city on a plunging trot, and there being no 
carriages or horses in the street to intercept our pro- 


42 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


gress, we did not slacken our speed. As we approached 
a narrow street, into which we were to turn, I saw a 
little donkey ambling along with a load on his back y 
but not dreaming he was going to interfere with my 
motions, I paid no attention to him till just as I wae 
turning the corner, when, to my surprise, I saw him also 
wheeling into the same street, and not hugging the wall 
either so closely as I thought he might conveniently 
have done. Being under full speed, 1 saw in a moment 
that a collision was inevitable; but I suppose his 
donkeyship would have the worst of it, as I carried both 
more momentum and more weight. But the load I took 
to be some soft substance proved to be blocks of marble, 
against the corner of which my leg came with all the 
force a rapid trot could bring it. The donkey, load and 
all, went spinning into the corner of an old palace, but 
my leg was battered most cruelly by the blow. After I 
dismounted, I found myself unable to walk for a long 
time, and have limped ever since. This you would say, 
should learn me to ride slower, while I would say, it 
should learn all donkeys to keep their own side of the 
road. 

The other day I went to see the manuscripts of 
Columbus, presented by him to the city of Genoa. They 
are kept in an aperture made in a marble shaft, that m 
surmounted by a bust of Columbus. The little brass door 
that shuts them in can be opened only by means of three 
keys, which have been kept till lately by three different 
officers, in three different sections of the city, so highly is 
the legacy prized. These letters are written in bold, 
plain characters, and are filled with the noblest senti¬ 
ments. Several were translated to me, and one ex¬ 
pression struck me as peculiarly characteristic, of the 
man. Speaking of his preservation in his long voyages, 
and through his great perils, he says: “I am one of the 
most favoured by the grace of God.” I never held a 
treasure in my hand, that had to me such an inestimable 
value, as these noble letters of the noblest and greatest 
of men. I have seen and heard much of an Italian’s love 
of music, but nothing illustrating it so forcibly as an 
incident that occurred last evening at the opera. In the 
midst of one of the scenes, a man in the pit near the 
orchestra was suddenly seized with convulsions. Hie 
limbs stiffened; his eyes became set in his head, and 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


43 


stood wide open, staring at the ceiling like the eyes of a 
corpse; while low and agonizing groans broke from his 
struggling bosom. The Prima-Donna came forward at 
that moment, but seeing this livid, death-stamped face 
before her, suddenly stopped, with a tragic look and 
start, that for once was perfectly natural. She turned 
to the bass-singer, and pointed out the frightful spectacle. 
He also started back in horror, and the prospect was that 
the opera would terminate on the spot; but the scene 
that was just opening was the one in which the Prima- 
Donna was to make her great effort, and around which 
the whole interest of the play was gathered, and the 
spectators were determined not to be disappointed be¬ 
cause one man was dying, and so shouted, “ go on ! go 
on!” Clara Novello gave another look towards the 
groaning man, whose whole aspect was enough to freeze 
the blood, and then started off in her part. But the dying 
man grew worse and w r orse, and finally sprung bolt up¬ 
right in his seat. A person sitting behind him, all-ab¬ 
sorbed in the music, immediately placed his hands on his 
shoulders, pressed him down again, and held him firmly in 
his place. There he sat, pinioned fast, with his pale, corpse¬ 
like face upturned, in the midst of that gay assemblage, 
and the foam rolling over his lips, while the braying of 
trumpets, and the voice of the singer, drowned the groans 
that were rending his bosom. At length the foam be¬ 
came streaked with blood as it oozed through his teeth, 
and the convulsive starts grew quicker and fiercer. But 
the man behind held him fast, while he gazed in perfect 
rapture on the singer, who now, like the ascending lark, 
was trying her loftiest strain. As it ended, the house 
rang with applause, and the man who had held down 
the poor writhing creature could contain his ecstacy no 
longer, and lifting his hands from his shoulders, clapped 
them rapidly together three or four times, crying out over 
the ears of the dying man, “ Brava, brava!” and then 
hurriedly placing them back again to prevent his springing 
up, in his convulsive throes. It was a perfectly maddening 
spectacle, and the music jarred on the chords of my heart 
like the blows of a hammer. But the song was ended, 
the effect secured, and so the spectators could attend to 
the sufferer in their midst. The gens-d’armes entered, 
and carried him speechless and lifeless out of the theatre. 
If this be the refined nature, and sensitive soul, love of 


H 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


music creates, Heaven keep me from it, and my country¬ 
men. Give me a heart, with chords that vibrate to 
human suffering, sooner than to the most ravishing 
melody, aye, that can hear nothing and feel nothing else, 
when moving Pity speaks. But so the world goes,— 
men will weep over a dying ass, then pitch a brother 
into a ditch. A play, oh, how they can appreciate, and 
feel it, they are so sensitive, but a stern, stirring fact, they 
can look as coldly on as a statue! 

The wife of our charge related to me the other day a 
curious illustration of an Italian’s habit of crying “ bravo” 
to everything that pleases him. During the winter there 
was a partial eclipse of the sun, and the Turinites were 
assembled on the public square to witness it. As the 
shadow of the moon slowly encroached on the sun’s disc, 
they cried out “ bravo, bravo,” as they would to a suc¬ 
cessful actor on the stage. 

A priest whom L-- considers a great bore has just 

left us. He has one of the most treacherous, sinister- 
looking black eyes I ever saw in a human head. Mrs- 
L—— says his presence affects her like that of a snake. 
I rather like him as a character, though I would not 
trust him an inch beyond his self-interest. He is honest 
in one thing, however—he says there is not a ghost of 
chance for a Protestant in the next world, and asserts 
that I am a gone man, with most provoking coolness. 
He will not let me stop even in purgatory, where the 
prayers of good Catholics might reach me, but shoves me 
straight past into the lowest pit of perdition. I laugh at 
ms charity, and hope a better destiny for him. 

Truly yours. 



TRAVELS IN ITALY, 


43 


IX 

A Day’s Ramble through the City of Genoa. 

Genoa, January 10,1845, 

Dear E.—I do not know that I can give a better 
notion of the various little things you meet in Genoa, 
than by relating the incidents of a single day’s pro¬ 
menade. 

Yesterday at two o’clock I started out into strada 
Balbi, and passing the king’s palace, Durazzo, and Balbi, 
and other palaces, came at length to an open square, oc¬ 
cupied as a Yettura stand, which was blocked with those 
old, shabby, shattered, rickety affairs called vetture. 
The horses standing before them, either eating hay or 
looking as if they never had eaten any, seemed to have 
been carefully selected from all the smallest, oldest* 
sickest, poorest, laziest, rejected dray horses of the world. 
They all had on old Dutch harnesses, and many were sup¬ 
plied with rope traces and reins, while the dirty drivers 
looked like “ scare-crows eloped from a corn-field.” Yon 
would be amused to see one of these vehicles in motion. 
Built originally something like a common hack, they have 
an additional sort of calash top, projecting over the seat 
of the driver, which, having a decidedly downward pitch, 
gives to the whole apparatus the appearance of diving at 
the horses. Take some of the oldest (and they seem 
contemporaries of the Ark) and get the team you would 
take for a pair of poor cows in full motion, and you would 
be astonished at the certainty with which they reach their 
destination. It is wonderful to watch how the carriage 
will keep the general direction of the horses, without ap¬ 
pearing to follow them at all. The great thing seems to 
be, to keep the main run of the street. If I should see a 
carriage at home performing such evolutions as these vet- 
turas often do, I should certainly halloo to the driver to 
hold up, or he would soon be in pieces. 

As I passed this stand I was hailed of course, like a 
passenger at a steamboat landing with “a Milano, a. 



4G 


TEAYELS IN ITALY. 


Torino, a Lucca, a Pegli,” &c. To the d—l,said a rough 
voice behind me. It came from an Englishman, who was 
running the same gauntlet with myself. He cursed, 
while I laughed involuntarily, thinking of New York, and 
wondering what the good people of Gotham would say to 
see such scare-crow establishments in their streets offered 
to their service. 

Leaving this rabble, I came to a bend in the street 
where Balbi is changed into Nuovissima. In the side of 
the wall, in the corner, is a fountain, at which women 
stood washing clothes, with as much unconcern as if they 
were notin the Broadway of Genoa. 

Coming to another open space where the street takes 
the name of Nuova, on which there is not a building but 
a palace, I saw a group of men in that oval shape which 
always indicates someting of interest in the centre. This 
is a law of bipeds, and knowing its universality, I stepped 
up to look in with the rest. In the centre was a Nea¬ 
politan with “ twa dogs,” which he affirmed came from 
the uttermost parts of the earth, even from America. I 
thought very likely, for one resembled a common bull 
pup, and the other looked like an ordinary black whiffet. 
The black one was walking with the most ludicrous 
gravity around the circle on his fore legs, while his hinder 
parts were elevated in the air. After he had finished his 
promenade, the man made a regular stump speech and 
then introduced the bull pup. He called him up and 
asked him if he liked tobacco. The little fellow lazily 
hfted up his fore paws to the man’s knees and sneezed. 

He then asked him if he liked maccaroni. He slowly 
turned up his eye, as much as to say, “ What an insult!” 
and then deliberately yawned. “ Now,” said he to the 
dog, “we will have some music.” On the ground was a 
piece of carpet, and on the carpet a sort of harp, with a 
piece of written music fastened at the top. The man 
knelt on one knee, and played an old, broken-winded 
giving at the same time a wink to the dog. 
The little fellow, with all the gravity, if not grace, of a 
Miss at a piano, squatted down on his hind legs, and, 
aying Ins little ears back, lifted his fore paws to the harp 
and played, or rather pawed a sort of running accom¬ 
paniment to the tune, amid peals of laughter. I shook 
niy ead at the man’s first statement, and however much, 
pride I might take in owning such remarkable dogs aa 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


47 


fellow-citizens, I knew none but a dog, born and 
educated in a land of fine arts and song, could learn 
music so early. It was an Italian dog and no other. I 
passed on through strada Nuova, and, turning to the left, 
came to another open space and another group of men, 
women and children. In the centre of this were a boy 
and girl, brother and sister, about ten and fourteen years 
of age; and they too were “getting a living.” They 
were from the Savoy Mountains. The girl had a sort of 
hand-organ swung around her neck, resembling an old 
unpainted box, out of which she was grinding music, 
which she accompanied with her voice, and oh, such 
singing! The little shabby, dirty thing, stood with her 
sun-burnt, pox-pitted face screwed up into a most 
tragical expression, and shooting forward at intervals, 
like the opening of a knife blade, to give force to her 
words, while the strained chords stood out like sentinels 
on her brown neck and bosom. The ragged urchin also 
had a box strapped around his neck, in which was a 
veritable “coon,” that he made dance and whirl to the 
music. A few steps more brought me on to the grand 
promenade, “ aqua sola ” (solitary water), under which 
rest the mouldering bones of 80,000 people, who were 
swept away by one pestilence. Around me were foun¬ 
tains and flowers; above me the terraced hills, and far 
away the sparkling sea. It was poetry all, even to the 
far off and glorious sky. Just then I stumbled on a group 
of women and children, sitting against the sunny side of 
a wall, looking heads , and from the appearance they 
seemed remarkably successful. This, too, is Italy, I 
exclaimed, as I turned into another walk, that over¬ 
looked the “ Grand Paradise,” and the residence of Lord 
Byron. But here, also, I was met by another Italian in 
the shape of a woman—a beggar—and resembling more 
a dirty, ragged Indian squaw than an Italian. Her sun¬ 
burnt hair hung over her face and shoulders, while an 
old woollen blanket, that extended from her head nearly 
to her bare feet, served partially to conceal the rags that 
covered her. She threw her head on one side, held out 
her hand, and in a pitiful tone exclaimed, “ per carita f 
■,Signore , mi miserable.” Miserable enough she seemed, 
but as I did not immediately grant her request, she 
began to try the effect of a little English, for which she 
&ad our Navy to thank. The first words they teach are 


48 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


oaths, and they are the only words she knew without 
knowing- their meaning. “ I say, Signore,” she whined, 
“ I say per carita, God damn.” I turned away sick with 
the lessons Americans teach the wretched of other lands. 

I turned towards the sea again, and felt I was in Italy; 
for there were the beautiful latines dotting the bosom of 
the water like swans, and with their one great white 
sail, that looked like a wing, flying on their wa} r . It was 
now late in the afternoon, but the sun was warm, and a 
gentle south breeze was coming up the Gulf, bland and 
soft as a June wind ; and so I turned to ascend the 
mountain that forms the amphitheatre behind Genoa, and 
which overlooks the entire city, and port, and neighbour¬ 
ing sea. 

It was a long and toilsome walk. The close high walls 
that hemmed in the path, mocked every effort to catch a 
glimpse of the beautiiul scene that I kne w was spread 
out below me. At length I reached the summit; and oh, 
what a vision lay at my feet! Beggars and street-singers 
and all were forgotten. Palaces, and towers, and gar¬ 
dens, and vineyards, and coming and departing vessels 
were crowded into one “ coup d'ceil '.” On the right 
stretched away the beautiful riviera towards Nice 
sprinkled with villages. In front was the sea, wash¬ 
ing the base of the Alps, that stood like “ earth’s gigantic 
sentinels,” with their white helmets on, flashing in the 
clear air and light of the upper regions. Below me were 
the city and port of Genoa; behind me the bleak, grev 
Apennines, piled and packed against the clear skv. On 
every side, between me and the city, were terraced vine- 
yards and gardens. The sun was going to his bed behind 
the Alps, bathing the whole southern horizon in gold 
which was reflected again in the still water. I watched 
him till his disc disappeared behind a snow peak, leavine- 
a momentary glow of fire on a grey fort that frowned 
from the summit of a mountain near me, and then turned 
to the panorama below. A long train of mules issued 
from the city gates, and wound in single file along the 
riviera—the tinkle of their bells coming faint and low at 
intervals to my ear on the light breeze that ascended the 

alnno- K lde P 63 ? 31113 were returning home; some 

r. a ? sh ° re ,’ and some wiD ding up the mountain- 

paths. The muffled sound of carriage-wheels and the 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


49 


murmur of busy men struggled out of the close packed 
city as the night descended upon it. At length the even¬ 
ing chime of bells rose and trembled over its marble 
palaces, drowning every other sound with its louder 
melody. 

I stayed on the hill-top watching the changing scenes 
till darkness closed over the whole. At length the lan¬ 
tern of the immense light-house threw its flame over the 
sea and port, and the full moon seemed to leap above the 
Apennines, casting its deeper light and shade on moun¬ 
tain, sea and city. 

I descended to the town to end the poetry of an Italian 
day in a cafe, over a cup of coffee. But all the varieties 
<of an Italian life had not yet been presented to me. With 
Italians, poetry and music do not end at the door of an 
eating-house. While I was quietly sipping my coffee, a 
group entered; a man and boy with a flute and violin, 
and a young woman with a guitar, all from the moun¬ 
tains of Piedmont. They played and sang their mountain- 
airs, till I began to dream of rocks, and jutting crags, and 
climbing goats, and eagle-nested huts, and brawling tor¬ 
rents, and every thing in a wild, free existence. But 
alas, for the poetry of life! So buried was I in my 
thoughts, that I did not notice the cessation of the song, 
but sat twirling my spoon in my cup, wondering if it 
were not better at once to find some quiet nook among 
the hills, and, Rosseau-like, dream away existence, when 
the spell was broken by the soft voice of the Piedmontese 
beside me. I looked up, and there she stood, with a 
little pewter dish in her hand, most humbly asking for a 
few sous. Oh! pretty Piedmontese, what a fall you gave 
me! I threw her the coppers, shoved vexatiously my 
cup aside, and hastened into the streets. All this, too, 
was “for a consideration.” Bah! Land of Song! Yes, 
truly; but your inspiration is money. And what is man’s 
boasted independence of will, when so slight a thing can 
for the moment make a jest of all his resolutions, and 
wind him, like a wand, around an impulse! I turned to 
my lodgings, with three Swiss peasants before me singing 
lazily along. Two carried two different parts, while the 
third would ever and anon fling in his deep, heavy bass 
voice, by way of chorus. These did not seem to be 
Binging for money; but I could not enjoy it, and, weary 
D 


50 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


and exhausted, I thought there was no poetry in the 
world like the poetry of sleep. 

I have gone over these little things, because they are 
the best illustration of Italian character. In just about 
this proportion are its music, and scenery, and beggars, 
and wretches mingled. It is a land of great contrasts. 
The people, with their poetry and music, seem to me like 
a speculator in an old Athenian temple, selling its rich 
ornaments, that were the objects of his ancestors’ affec¬ 
tion and veneration, like the trinkets of a toy-shop. The 
language of Italy was made by poets, and is of itself 
sufficient to render its people effeminate. Its singing has 
not been exaggerated. It seems as natural for an Italian 
to sing as for a duck to swim, and he enjoys music with 
a relish we are ignorant of. Some favourite air from 
Bellini or Rossini will be hummed by a ragged urchin in 
the streets, or ground out by one of those hand-organs 
that meet you at every turn. The Italians are, after all, 
a happy people, and, like the French, seem to live only 
for the present. The United States they consider as out 
of the world, and its inhabitants only half civilized. 
They shrug the shoulder when you speak of its frost, and 
sing on in their own mild clime. An Italian speculator 
the other day was inquiring of me how cold New York 
was, for he had had the intention of trying to grow mul¬ 
berry-trees in it. I told him the thermometer didn’t 
generally fall more than twenty degrees below zero. 
“ Per Bacchny said he, with an expression and a shrug, 
as if he already felt the ice around him ; “ it will never 
do.” The last I heard of him, he had started for Carac- 
cas. He will doubtless find it warm enough there. 

Truly yours. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


51 


X. 


\ 


Italian Soirees and Beauty—Marquis of Palavicini—Low Life. 

Genoa, February, 1811. 

Dear E. —I suppose you are wondering I say no more 
of the Carnival and its gaities, but nothing is more stupid 
than an Italian soiree. Conversation is mere twaddle; 
and dancing, and waltzing, and music, are the three great 
elements of Italian society. Masquerades and balls are 
common among every class, down to the half-clad beg¬ 
gar. 

The Governor’s soirees twice a week, the Marquis di 
Negro’s once a week, and the grand balls of the Casino, 
of which there are but three during the winter, are the 
three principal places of the resort of the nobility''. 

My first introduction in society was at the old Doge’s 
Palace. As I entered through the grand gatewa}*-, 
guarded by soldiers with their glittering arms, and 
passed through the long line of Portatine, or sedan chairs, 
arranged on each side of the walk, from which were 
emerging closely veiled figures, and ascended the long 
and magnificent marble steps, amid the presenting of 
arms, into the entrance chamber, filled with liveried ser¬ 
vants, I expected to be dazzled with such an array of 
beauty as never before blessed the eye of man—unlessit 
was King Solomon in the midst of his Harem. Indeed 
my accustomed self-confidence was fast oozing out, and I 
have no doubt I should have committed some blunder had 
not Antonio, like a capital valet as he was, done every¬ 
thing in its proper time. I first entered a large saloon, 
and, lo! it was filled to overflowing with nothing but 
officers in their uniform. I wandered on till I came to 
the “ ladies’ room,” and it is no more sad than true, there 
was not a really pretty woman in it. I must acknow¬ 
ledge, however, there were not many present. The Go¬ 
vernor, whether he noticed my disappointment, or wished 
to be civil, I know not, said, “You must come next 
Monday evening ; this is a [ conversazione,’ and there are 



m 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


Tbut a few ladies here—Monday evening we have a Ball, 
and there will be more present.” Just then a beautiful 

creature swept into the room, and the Baroness of L- 

was announced. As she saluted the Governor and passed 
on, he whispered to me, “ A very beautiful woman.” 
“Very beautiful,” I replied, at the same time drawing a 
long breath, like one relieved from a long suspense, and 
very glad for the opportunity of making such a remark. 
But she was a Russian Baroness on a visit to the Gover¬ 
nor, and not an Italian. I need not say, that the next 
Monday I did not go. Indeed his soirees, which are 
twice a week during Carnival, I find so excessively 
stupid, that unless I am sure of some extra attraction, I 
seldom attend. The majority of gentlemen present are 
officers of the army, who are compelled to attend, so that 
his Excellency’s rooms may not be left empty. The poor 
fellows sit around the rooms like statues, and looking as 
if it were the hardest duty they had to perform. These 
“ Conversazioni” do not tempt one by the refreshments 
furnished; for I verily believe that two pounds would 
pay, each evening, all the expenses the Governor is at in 
the entertainment. 

The other evening T was at an unusually brilliant as¬ 
sembly at the Palace of the Governor; and as I was 
standing amid a group of officers, I caught a view of a 
head and face that drew from me an involuntary excla¬ 
mation. There was a beauty and expression about it I 
never had seen but once in my life before; but no one 
could tell me who she was or where she came from ; yet 
all looked as if they would give the world to know. At 
length seeing her seated in familiar conversation beside a 
lady with whom I was acquainted, I soon pierced the 
mystery that surrounded her. You can guess my surprise 
and pleasure to learn that this beauty was of American 
origin. She was the daughter of Lord Erskine, Minister 
to the Court of Vienna. When Minister to the United 
States he married a beautiful Philadelphia lady (daughter 
of Mr. Cadwallader), who, it seems, had transmitted the 
charms that had enthralled the noble lord to the daugh¬ 
ter. You can judge of the effect of American beauty on 
the Italians, when 1 tell you, that while I stood by her, 
the young nobles marched by in regular platoons and 
paused as they came opposite her, and gazed as if moon¬ 
struck. The radiant creature sat “ quite unconscious of 


TRAVELS IN ITALY, 53 

all this, of course ,” as the lady sitting by her side not 
very amiably whispered to me. 

Last night the annual Ball was given by the Governor 
at his Palace, and there were many beautiful women 
present. At that time alone, during the whole year, 
unless in court, do the nobility wear the family jewels. 
On this night they are all exhibited on the necks, 
heads, and arms of the matrons and their daughters. It 
makes a perfect blaze of diamonds. The nobility of 
Genoa are among the richest of Italy, for the wealth the 
crusades opened to them in the East is still gathered here. 
Such a profusion of ornament I never beheld. There, for 
the first time I saw the helle of the city—the Marchioness 
of Balbi. I was glad to see what the Italians regarded 
as beauty, and was surprised to find that she had the light 
complexion and rosy cheeks of the Saxon race. She was 
beautiful— very, but of that kind of beauty I do not par¬ 
ticularly admire ; it was, what I would term, of the doll 
kind. But oh, such spirits, and such a dazzling quantity 
of diamonds; one almost needed to shield his eyes to look 
on her. The value of them was variously estimated, but 
the average estimate seemed to put them at about forty 
thousand pounds. But even her diamonds could not out¬ 
shine the sparkling joy of her countenance. I never saw* 
a being float so through a saloon, as if her body were a 
feather and her soul the zephyr that floated it. It made 
me sigh to look on her. Such abounding gaiety—such 
thrilling mirth!—I knew it could not last; this world 
was not made for it. The next time I saw her she was 
in deep mourning, with her head bowed down like a bul¬ 
rush. The bloom had gone from her cheek, and the light 
from her eye. She vanished from the gay world like a 
stricken bird. Her brother, the Marquis of Palavicini— 
one of the noblest young men I ever met—liberal in hi-s 
feelings and handsome in his person—the pride and hope 
of his family—suddenly died. I saw him last at the 
Marquis di Negro’s. As I bade him good evening I was 
struck with the expression of his countenance; it had a 
look so intensely anxious that it fixed my attention. 
This was Friday evening. Sabbath morning a mutual 
friend called on me and tpld me he was dead! So we 
vanish, like ghosts at cock-crowing. 

He was extravagantly wealthy, yet simple as the se¬ 
verest republican in his appearance and habits. I never 


TRAVELS IN' ITALY. 


U 

left him, after a conversation, without feeling 1 that he 
was destined to affect materially the fate of his country. 
There was a high principle, and a resolute will in him, 
that always generates great and energetic action. I 
shall never forget the effect of a remark of his to me, and 
the manner of it, one evening, in one of the brilliantly 
illuminated rooms of the Governor’s palace. Amid the 
dense throng of men on every side, you could detect 
scarcely one not in military uniform. The young Marquis 
was standing alone in the centre of the room, leaning 
against a billiard-table, and absorbed apparently in deep 
thought, yet with an expression of scorn in his features, 
perfectly withering. I stepped up and addressed him; 
and after returning my salutation, he remarked, with a 
tone that showed it was caused by no passing feeling, 
“ How contemptible is a nation of soldiers, and how piti¬ 
ful the state of a people among whom the uniform of an 
officer is the highest mark of honour.” I looked at him 
in astonishment. For a remark less treasonable than 
that, many a noble, during the past few years, had seen 
the inside of a prison. That declaration acted upon 
would revolutionize Italy in two months. I turned away, 
feeling that good would yet come out of that proud young 
Marquis, or evil to him. 

But he is gone, and one of the most frequent regrets I 
hear expressed is, that his sister cannot now give the 
series of splendid entertainments she had in preparation. 

The cause of his death has checked somewhat the flow 
of visitors to our fleet. The young Marquis dined one 
day, with several of the nobility, on board of one of our 
ships, and, unaccustomed to our strong wines, drank till 
his blood became overheated. In the evening, when he 
came ashore, he went up on the “ Aqua Sola,” where the 
wind had a fair sweep, and sat down to cool himself.— 
He took cold—became deranged, and was hurried out of 
the world. 

Perhaps you complain that I do not give you more par¬ 
ticulars of fashionable society, but it is all alike—splendid 
rooms, brilliantly illuminated, any quantity of nobility- 
dancing, waltzing, promenading, ice creams, hot punch, 
and late hours, make up the description. It is gay and 
brilliant, but without force or wit. You would pro¬ 
bably agree with Antonio in his opinion of my taste in 
such matters. He was very much shocked the other 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


55 


evening, as we were without the city walls, purchasing 
some things for Mrs. L. (who is very sick), because I 
asked him to accompany me into a low, dirty hovel, 
from which was issuing the sound of boisterous merri¬ 
ment. He expostulated with me, and in answer to all 
my reasons, exclaimed, “ They are la bassa yente , signore, 
{low people). “Exactly,” said I, “and that is the very 
reason I wish to see them. High life is plenty in Genoa, 
I can see that any time ; I want to become acquainted 
with low life.” Willing, however, that he should not be 
disgraced by being seen with persons so far below his 
rank, I excused him from accompanying me, and told him 
I would go alone. But he was too well trained to think 
of such a thing, and so, without farther ado, marched on. 
You should have seen the infinite contempt with which 
he deposited the entrance fee, and pushed aside the 
blanket that served for a door, and entered. All the 
while we were there he stood with his hat on, and rolling 
from side to side, with a kind of swagger, as much as to 
say, “ I don’t care what the tastes of those who would 
call themselves gentlemen may be, but if / were called 
upon, I should have no hesitation in expressing my opi¬ 
nion on this matter ” The poor fellow really suffered in 
his feelings. 

The scene was very much like those I have seen in the 
quarterings of slaves at the South on the evening of a 
holiday. The floor was the bare earth, and the dancers 
and waltzers that spun around ou it were most of them 
barefoot; while many of the men, with the utmost care 
in their toilet, could muster only a shirt and a pair of 
pantaloons. The entrance fee, I think, was four centisima, 
or four-fifths of a halfpenny. Truly yours. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


56 


XI. 


Odd Brokers. A Catholic Miracle. 


February. 

Dear E.—I have discovered a new class of brokers., 
often in great demand here, and who frequently make hand- 
some speculations. You may confide the secret to a few 
particular friends for their exclusive benefit, or you may 
give it to the world for the good of the public. I received 
my information from an Italian—a Catholic, and a man of 
rank, so it can be relied on. 

There are certain monks, priests, and friars, in this 
country, ready to do any job, provided it pays well. 
Now it often happens that a man wishes to pay his ad¬ 
dresses to a lady, and finds obstacles in the lady herself 
or in her friends. In either case he enlists a monk in his 
service, who, having access where he is denied entrance, 
and influence where he has none, carries on the negocia- 
tions under more favourable auspices. Through his office, 
he can bring some motives to bear on the parents that the 
lover could not use ; and if communication with the lady 
is desired, he is sure to bring it about. A good catholic 
would hardly think of turning a priest out of doors, or 
presume to question him too closely on his actions. He 
also, through pretence of administering spiritual consola¬ 
tion, can often gain her ear; and if it should so happen 
that she herself should be averse to the suitor’s prayer, 
he can work on her fears or feelings ad libitum. This he 
does, and often brings about a marriage that otherwise 
would never have taken place. It matters not whether 
love or money be the moving cause of the man’s wishes, 
if the priest secures the lady he has three per cent, on all 
the dowry she brings to the husband. Custom has fixed 
this rate till it is absolute as law, so that if a monk is the 
means of securing but one large fortune for a man in his 
life-time, he gets for himself quite a snug little sum 
against a rainy day. Now why not introduce this at 
home, and establish a new brokerage system. I know 


TRAVELS IN ITALY, 

many lazy loungers in Broadway, who would not hesitate 
a moment to give even more than three per cent, of the 
fortunes they try in vain to touch, if some one would 
only find means to put one of them in their hands. To 
be sure it would require men of acknowledged taste, and 
some character, to be successful in such matters. But 
this makes it so much the better. It would be decidedly 
a genteel business. A good deal of flattery, some fraud, 
and a vast deal of mauceuvring, would, of course, be 
requisite. A proud mamma must be wheedled into the 
belief that her daughter will make a great “ speck” by 
the marriage, or the close-fisted suspicious old Jew of a 
father convinced that the young man is a perfect pattern 
of economy—but then three or perhaps six per cent, on 
forty thousand pounds!—that’s the point. This matter is 
now left too much in the hands of friends, who do not 
make a thorough business of it, and hence do not suc¬ 
ceed. I give you the suggestion for what it is worth; 
only if it is acted on and succeeds, see that I have the 
credit of it. 

As I am speaking of priests, I will give you another 
instance of the value of their services to the country. 
Last week a most terrific storm visited Genoa; nothing: 
like it has been known since the terrible hurricane of 
1823. It came from the southwest, bringing the sea with 
it, and rolling it up against the base of these mountains 
as if it would drive them from their seats. Sometimes 
you would almost need a candle at mid-day, so dense and 
dark were the clouds that hung over the city. Endea¬ 
vouring to walk around the outer wall of the town that 
overhangs the sea, I was often compelled to lie flat on 
my face, to keep from being carried off my feet, and borne 
away by the blast. This wail rises thirty or forty feet 
from the sea, and from its top the houses go up fifty and 
sixty feet higher, and yet the spray and foam would often 
rise and shoot clean over the roofs of the houses, and 
be carried by the wind far into the city. The moles 
that form the harbour, with the sea breaking over them, 
looked more like snow-drifts, with the snow shooting in 
horizontal lines from their summits. The two light¬ 
houses on them were half the time merely lofty pyramids 
of foam, lantern and all buried under the leaping wave. 
The flag-ship, Columbus, parted two of her cables in on? 
night, although lying snugly in port. One ship parted 


58 TRAVELS IN ITALY. 

her anchor, and came dashing against the walls of the 
city. Her masts fell at the first shock, and in the morn¬ 
ing I saw her hull shivered into mere splinters, and her 
broken spars knocking with every swell against the base 
of the wall. The oldest officers of our navy, who have 
been on almost every coast in the world, tell me that 
they never saw so magnificent a spectacle in all their sea 
life. The waves no longer rolled, but ran, as if they 
had no time to form high seas, and when they struck the 
city they sprang as if without weight into the air, and 
threatened to overleap it. One of the moles was broken 
through, and the walls of the city in one place demo¬ 
lished, as if the cannon of an enemy had made a breach. 
As I stood on a projecting point, clinging to the low 
parapet, and watched the billow as it drove in, till dis¬ 
appearing below, it struck against the base of the wall 
on which I stood, and rose like an arch over my head, 
drenching me in its passage, I had the most vivid con¬ 
ceptions of awful power I ever experienced. It was not 
an angry sea, but a sea run wild, crazy, and dashing in 
reckless energy against the barriers that dared to oppose 
it. The continuous roar heard in every part of the city 
at midnight, when all was asleep save the raving sea, 
was indescribably awful. But one vessel appeared on 
the horizon during the whole time—the sea had it all in 
its own way. This was an English vessel, bound from 
Marseilles to Leghorn, but driven by the gale seventy- 
five miles up. the gulf. I watched her as she drew near 
the port, driving under bare poles, and hung out her 
pilot flag. The silent request was a vain one, for a boat 
could not live a moment in that sea. On she surged, till 
near the mouth of the harbour, when she was laid to, as 
the captain feared to attempt the entrance in such a 
tempest, and alone. But he could not carry a rag of 
canvass, and the vessel drove on stern first towards”the 
City. I could fancy the short consultation held on board, 
whether it were best to endeavour to make the port, or 
hold on outside. It did not take long to decide; for in 
a few minutes the noble bark slowly wheeled on the sea, 
and without a sail up, and with her tall masts reeling in 
the storm, headed straight for the city. An involuntary 
cheer burst from my lips, as I saw her roll into port. 
Her bow had almost an intelligent look as it appeared 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 59 

around the end of the mole, fairly in sight of the haven. 
It was nobly, gallantly done. 

But to the priests. The storm raged for three days, 
and on the fourth, the bishop with the priests went in 
solemn procession to the Cathedral, and took from 
thence the ashes of John the Baptist (which they pre¬ 
tend are entombed there), and marched to the sea-shore, 
where, kneeling in presence of the waves, they offered 
up their prayers that heaven would allay the tempest. 
This was in the afternoon ; towards evening the wind 
wheeled in the north, and the storm was over. Here 
was a veritable miracle, and I was curious to know how 
much it had imposed on the people. So I began in the 
morning with Antonio, “Well,” said I, very seriously, 
“ Antonio, there was quite a miracle performed last 
night—we ought to be very thankful that the priests 
have been able to check this storm for us.” He shrugged 
his shoulders, burst into a laugh, and said, “ Why didn’t 
they pray sooner, before the mischief was all done, and 
not wait three days. Ah, they know that storms in this 
country never last more than four days, and they saw 
the wind changing before they started.” I did not ex¬ 
pect so plump a confession of humbuggery by a catholic 
servant. My next experiment was with a gentleman of 
wealth and distinction. I made very seriously a similar 
remark to him. He also gave that peculiar Italian shrug 
which is the most expressive gesture I ever saw, and 
replied, “Umph, they watched the barometer, and were 
careful enough not to start till they saw it rising.” 

This single fact gave me more hope for Italy than any¬ 
thing I had witnessed. It showed me that the power 
of the priest over the mind of the people was weakened 
—that they dared to think. When men who have been 
long under oppression dare to call in question and scorn 
the power they once blindly submitted to, they have 
reached a point where change commences. 

Truly, yours. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY* 


W 


i 

XII. 

Lord Byron. Marquis di Negro. 


r eoruary. 

Dear E.—To-day, accompanied by Duralde, I have 
been over the palace Lord Byron occupied when he way 
in Genoa. Here were gathered for a while, Byron, Hunt, 

Shelly, and the Countess of Guiccioli. Count -, a 

Frenchman, has bought the place. I had often met him 
m society, and he showed us with great civility th& 
various rooms, together with the improvements he was 
projecting. When Byron first started for Greece, he was 
driven back to Genoa by a storm, and is said to have 
expressed sad forebodings as he again wandered over 
this, his then solitary dwelling. 

The palace stands on a hill, called the grand Paradise, 
from the magnificent view it commands. As I stood in the 
Iront coiridor, and looked off on the varied yet everglori" 
ous prospect, I felt that Byron with his sensative nature 
must have often been subdued by it, and especially hia 
bold scepticism have stood rebuked in presence of the 
majestic Alps that towered on his vision. He wrote the 
Vision of Judgment here, yet I could not but fancy, that, 
olten at evening, when he rose from his unhallowed task, 
and came out to look on this lovely scene, his troubled 
spirit half resolved to abandon its sinful work. The 

In C a°7 f - G ? d 1 C 0 U i dreach his heart through nature, and 
tell him to his face that his evil was not good.” His 

Italian teacher has been mine, and I often question him 
ot Byron s habits and character. He fully confirms the 

““?! on ? f Hu pt> tj 1 ^ Byron was a penurious man, and 
pable of great littleness. His generous actions were 
usually done for effect, and if followed out were found 
£?*!? 80 managed as not to bring personal loss in the end. 
Pvrnn y> u was a nobler man than either Hunt or 
am i f* Ilunt Was - Cold and repulsive—Byron irritable. 

onen h?ar ZP WhUe She ' ley was f ? ener0 “ 8 and 

open heaited. He had a copy of the “Liberal,” which 



TRAVELS IN' ITALY. 


61 


they presented to him, and which I looked over with no 
ordinary feelings. In visiting Byron in his room, he 
said that he noticed four books always lying on the 
table. No matter what others might have been with 
them and taken away, these four always remained. It 
struck him they must be peculiar favourites of the poet, 
and so he had the curiosity to examine them, and found 
them to be the Bible, Machiavelli, Shakspeare, and Al- 
tieri’s tragedies. It immediately struck me, that these 
four volumes were a perfect illustration of Byron’s 
character. Machiavelli he loved for his contempt of 
mankind, making them all a flock of sheep, to be led or 
slaughtered at the will of one haughty man. It harmo¬ 
nized with his own undisguised scorn. The Bible he 
read and admired for its lofty poetry, and which Byron 
by the way never scrupled to appropriate. If in his 
great ode on Bonaparte, he had followed Homer as 
closely as he has Isaiah, he would have been accused 
long ago of downright plagiarism. Alfieri he loved for 
his fiery and tempestuous nature, so much like his own. 
There was also in Alfieri the same haughty scorn that 
entered so largely in Byron’s character. He had stormed 
through half of Europe, without deigning to accept a 
single invitation into society, treating the proudest 
nobility of England with supreme contempt. He had 
also the same passion for horses, and the same fierce 
hatred of control. Shakspeare he admired in common 
with every man of feeling or intellect. My teacher told 
me also, that in all his frequent visits to the poet’s house, 
he had never seen him walk. Plow like a spear in the 
side that club foot always was to him. His appearance 
on horseback, with his pale face, long hair, and velvet 
cap, he said was very striking. The Countess Guiccioli 
seldom appeared in public with him, but her brother, 
Byron’s private secretary, usually accompained him in 
his rides. 

On my return from Byron’s mansion, I called on the 
Marquis di Negro. His “ Viletta” occupies a hill that 
overlooks the sea, and presents, from every point you 
view it, a most picturesque appearance. The hill is 
walled up on every side, so that it looks like an old 
castle, while the top is converted into a most beautiful 
garden. The Marquis knew Byron well, admired his 
genius, but shook his head when he spoke of his heart. 


62 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


The family of the Marquis is one of the oldest and 
noblest of the city, yet he cares nothing 1 for his rank, and 
prides himself on his literary reputation alone. He is 
republican in his feelings, and has an enthusiastic love 
for America. A father to his tenants, and the unswerving 1 
friend of the oppressed, his intercessions have released 


many a poor prisoner from a life of confinement. 

Although it is mid-winter, the temperature is soft and 
mild as June; and as the Marquis flung open the windows 
to let in the air laden with perfume, and the soft breeze 
from the sea that slumbered below, he brought out his 
harp and told me to give him a subject for a song. He 
has been one of the greatest “ Improvisatore” of his time, 
and still composes with wonderful facility. We had been 
talking of human freedom, and I gave him “ Liberty.” 
He swept his hand over his harp-strings and sung, while 
he played an accompaniment, one of the sweetest little 
odes I ever heard He composed both the poetry and 
music while he sung. 

I loved the Marquis before I had ever seen him. When, 
a stianger in Genoa, I was once wandering over the 1 
giounds of his viletta, looking at the statuary inter¬ 
spersed among the foliage, my attention was suddenly ar¬ 
rested by a marble figure standing in a niche, with the 
inscription over it in large capitals “ ALLA MEMORIA 
DI WASHINGTON”— '‘TO THE MEMORY OF 
WASHING ION. I was never taken more by surprise 
m my life. There it stood, the emblem and personifica¬ 
tion of freedom m one of the most despotic kingdoms 
of Europe. No pride prompted the honour, and self- 
interest was all against it. Feeling, noble feeling alone 
had placed it there. I never felt a compliment to my 
country, and my country’s father, more keenly than this 
statue uttered, standing as it did on the soil of tyranny 
I sat down at evening and perpetrated the following lines 
which I afterwards slightly altered, and read to afriend of 
the Marqms who was a frequent visitor at our house. He 
wished me to send Di Negro a copy, and in return the 
Marquis sent me a collection of his entire works, accom¬ 
panied with some lines in French, which I also give, not 
for the compliment they render me , but for the generous 
sentiments they breathe towards my country. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY, 


63 


TO THE VILLA DI NEGRO, 

Sweet Villa, from the distant sea. 

Long cradled on its stormy breast. 

Thy green top kindly greeted me. 

The first sweet harbinger of rest; 

And all thy bowers seemed welcoming 
The weary wanderer from his home. 

While, like the gentle breath of spring. 

Thy odours o’er the waves were borne. 

Bnt when, amid thy classic shades, 

I saw upon the sculptured stone. 

What never from a free heart fades, 

** Mkmorta di Washington,” 

The glad tears came into my eyes, 

Andfrommylips there breathed a prayer, 

And gazing still, with sweet surprise, 

I blessed the hand that set it there : 

And suddenly, I seemed again 
Upon my own free, native hills. 

And heard the shout of myriad men. 

That every patriot bosom thrills, 

“GEORGE WASHINGTON, the Great, THE Goo*> ! v 

But, as I caught its dying fall, 

I turned where that lone statue stood. 

And loved its mute praise more than all. 

God bless thee, noble Marquis! thou 
Dost bear thy years with vigour yet. 

And not in vain upon thy brow 
Is stamped the look of Lafayette. 

Long may’st thou live, the stranger’s friend, 

And when thy noble race is run. 

Around thy grave shall come and bend. 

In tears, the sons of Washington. 

The reference to Lafayette in the above lines is 
to the fact that the resemblance the Marquis di 
bears to the Marquis Lafayette is so striking, that the like¬ 
ness of the one is often mistaken for that of the other by 
those familiar with the features of both. He is upwards 
of seventy years of age, but vigorous and active as most 
men at fifty-live. If you feel inclined to find fault with the 
Prench in the lines of the Marquis, just remember how 
difficult it is to write poetry in a foreign language. 


owing 

Negro 




TRAVELS IN ITALY 


A MONSIEUR HEADLEY.* 

Votre verve se plait d’embellir ma retraite 
Par des accords flatteurs: je vous connais poele * 

Mon cceur, reconnaisant a ce trait de bonte, 

Vous offre le laurier de l’immortalite. 

C’est ici que cet arbre a jete ses racines, 

Et a cru par les soins de nos muses latines 
Dans des siecles fameux, et lorsque les Romains 
De l’univers entier etaient les souverains: 

Les temps sont bien changes ? mais chere est la memoire 
De ces heros brillant dans le sein de l’histoire ; 

Mon esprit se reveilla a ce beau souvenir, 

Qui ne pourra jamais dans mon aime perir. 

Honorer le talent fut toujours ma devise, 

Libre dans mes elans ma voix n’est pas soumise 
A l’envie, aux dedains, aux prejuges du jour. 

La verite m’eclaire, excitant mon amour ; 

L’Amerique m’est chere, et dans l’emotion 
J’adore avec respect l’immortal Washington. 

Et quel etre pouvarit a sa gloire se taire, 

Lui par son bras vanqueur, et par ses lois le pere, 

Qui refusa l’honneur de souverainte 
En donnant genereux la paix, la liberte. 

Dans cet Eden fleuri vous voyez son image 
Dressee, et des long-temps, par un tribut d’hommage, 

En Europe le seul venere monument, 

Qui recoit de tous lieux et les voeux et l’accent. 

Je partage avec vous ce mouvement de l’ame ; 

Apollon me sourit et son rayon m’enflamme, 

Et malgre mes vieux ans je puis par mes concerts 
Louer votre patrie en face a Tunivers. 

Gian Carlo di Negro. 

Della Villetta, cc 24 Janvier, 1843. 

* Translation —Your genius is pleased to embellish my retreat by its 
pattering numbers. I recognize you a poet, and offer you the laurel of 
immortality. Here this tree first cast its roots and grew under the fostering 
care of our Latin muses in the glorious ages, and when the Romans were 
■the monarehs of the world. The times are indeed changed; but the 
memory of those heroes is still dear, and my spirit awakes at the pleasant 
remembrance, which shall never perish from my soul. My motto always 
has been to honour talent; and, free in my feelings, my voice never 
submits to envy, scorn, or the prejudices of the day. It is truth, and 
truth only, that illumines my spirit, and excites my affection. America is 
dear to me, and I adore the name of the immortal Washington,—the 
conqueror by his arm, and the father by his laws. Who can keep silence 
hi the presence of his glory ? He refused the honour of sovereignty t* 
give peace and liberty to his country. In this garden you see his statue 
sculptured,—for a long time the only monument of him in Europe. My 


TRAVELS IN ITALY, 

Oar naval officers in the Mediterranean will have cause 
long to remember him with gratitude. 

Truly yours. 


XIII. 


Soldiers at Mass. Casino. Magdalen. Italian Virtue. 

Genoa, February, 184J, 

Dear E.—I have noticed several mornings quite a 
large portion of the army march at nine o’clock past our 
house to the sound of music, and in about an hour after 
return. It has puzzled me much to know what could 
occupy them so short a time every day at so early an 
hour—so this morning I followed them, when going 
down to the end of Strada Balbi, I saw them wheel and 
ascend the steps of the San Lorenzo church. It was all 
plain in a moment—the soldiers were attending Mass. I. 
entered behind them, and have seldom witnessed a more 
impressive spectacle. The better companies marched up 
each side of the nave, and stood with their faces all 
turned towards the main altar. The two ranks formed 
two lines, reaching from the door up to the transept. At 
the word of command they wheeled as one man, face to 
face, while the officers slowly walked up between them 
to the farther end, when they wheeled back facing the 
altar. All was decorous and solemn a3 a New England 
church of a Sabbath morning, and those soldiers stood 
with caps on and muskets to their breasts, under those 
noble arches and amid those marble columns, as motion¬ 
less as the marble itself, while a forest of steel glittered 
above their heads. Suddenly a little bell tinkled in the 
distance, and a priest entered. It tinkled again, and he 

spirit partakes with yours its raptures. Apollo smiles on me, his rays 
inflame me, and despite my old age I am able, by my strains, to praise? 
your country in the face of the universe. 

John Charles di Necf.0# 

The Villa, January 24,1S4J, 



TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


CG 

advanced to the altar. The third time it broke the still¬ 
ness a low order passed up the ranks, when a thousand 
muskets came to the marble pavement with a clang that 
made my heart for a moment stop its beating. In a 
moment it was still again, and the long ranks bowed 
their heads upon their hands, while a low prayer arose on 
the stillness. It ceased, and suddenly from under my 
very feet twenty drums broke in, and beat a wild and 
hurried beat, so loud and startling, that every stroke 
seemed to hit my brain. Again it was still, and the 
voice of prayer alone swelled through the temple. The 
appearance of that motionless army, the great contrast 
between the solemnity and silence of divine worship, and 
the noise of ringing steel and sound of martial music, 
combined to render the whole scene a succession of the 
most lively yet conflicting emotions. 

Night before last I was at the Marquis di Negro’s; in¬ 
deed, his “ Conversazioni” are the only parties I fre¬ 
quent with any pleasure. There is an absence of all 
formality in them, and the old Marquis himself is so de¬ 
termined to make every one about him happy, that he 
cannot but succeed. I mention that night, merely 
because I was driven into convulsions of laughter by an 

apology which the Marchioness of B- made for a 

misfortune that happened to some of her friends the day 
before. Several of the nobility had been invited on board 
one of our ships of the line to dinner. After the ladies 
had leit the table, the wine began to circulate pretty 
freely, and frequent toasts were drunk. The Italians 
thought it would be the height of incivility not to drain 
their glass at every toast, and, unaccustomed to our 
strong wines, soon became tipsy, and hence behaved as 
tipplers generally do under such circumstances. The 
ladies, of course, were very much shocked and mortified. 

The Marchioness of B- came to me to explain the 

matter. She said the gentlemen felt they must, in 
courtesy, drink the toasts, or, as she expressed it, “per 
forza ,” and the wine was so strong that they were 
caught before they were aware of it. One of her friends, 
she said, had been in England, and knew the effect of 
our wine; and so when he put the glass to his mouth, 
let it run down his vest, for he must (“per forza ”) pre - 
tend to drink. Here she put on such a dolorous look, 
and passed her hands down her dress to show the way in. 




TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


67 


which the wine flowed into the poor fellow’s besom with 
such inimitable naivete, that I burst into an uncontrolla¬ 
ble fit of laughter. Give me your Italian women to 
smoothe over a difficulty. 

Last night was the last grand display of the Casino, 
and I was never more mortitied than when the Marquis 
di Negro, who is the President of it, came to me and 
said, “ I see none of your officers are here. I am told 
they feel themselves neglected in the mode of sending 
out the invitations. I have been to the Consul and to the 
Commodore, and requested them to invite them all. I 
heard they refused to come before from the same reason, 
and hence have done everything in .my power to secure 
the pleasure of their company, and regret exceedingly 
not to see them present.” I had nothing to say, but 
hung my head in mortification. It was true that some 
of the officers deemed themselves not sufficiently recog¬ 
nized in the invitation, and hence the whole banded toge¬ 
ther, thus publicly to resent the affront. If it had been 
any one else but Di Negro, I would have minded it less ; 
but to wound him, who had never ceased lavishing his 
kindest attentions on our Navy since it had been in port, 
seemed ungenerous. 

A great deal of this silly adherence to rigid etiquette 
has been exhibited by many of our officers, much to their 
own discredit. The Consul has done everything in his 
power, and has been unwearied in his exertions to render 
the stay of the officers agreeable. The Governor has 
given him a carte blanche for all his balls, Conversazioni, 
soirees, &c., which he tills up with the name of every 
American gentleman who enters the city, and wishes to 
mingle in its society. Great courtesy is also extended 
towards the captains of our merchantmen, and we ven¬ 
ture to say, they never entered a port where they re¬ 
ceived so much attention from a public officer, as from 
him. We wish some of our consuls farther south had 
more of his urbanity, and willingness, nay, anxiety , to 
render every service to Americans. We wish, also, that 
Government would honour the office with a salary, that 
it may be better able to honour the Government in re¬ 
turn. There is no accounting for the meanness of our 
Government in its treatment of our Consuls, except by 
saying it has become such a habit it is overlooked. The 
money thrown away yearly, in sending out ministers to 


68 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


"be recalled in three months, would support thirty consuls 
where they are needed, but cannot now live except on 
their own incomes. 

Among the literary men I have met, none have pleased 
me more than Prof. Botta, Professor in the Genoa Uni¬ 
versity, and a relative of the historian Botta. News has 
reached us that Silvio Pellico is dead. I regret his death 
the more, as I bad a letter of introduction to him, and 
hoped to have seen the patriot before I left the country.* 

Two things you wish to hear about before I leave 
Genoa—its arts and morals. There is but little statuary 
here, and although there are many valuable paintings in 
the private palaces, they are so overshadowed by those 
of Florence and Home that they do not attract the atten¬ 
tion they deserve. In the Durazzo palace is a Magdalen 
that has but one equal in the world, and that is precisely 
like it, and is in Venice. Its beauty consists in its 
naturalness. It is not a beautiful woman in despair, 
dressed or undressed, as the case may be, for effect, but 
one simply in grief, and whose beauty the artist hag 
taken no pains to conceal is marred by the excess of her 
woe. Her eyes are swollen with weeping, and turned to 
heaven with that beseeching look in which faith is always 
mingled—indeed, her whole face is a prayer. The storm 
of passion is past—she has sobbed her grief away, and 
exhausted and penitent, is leaning on the arm of Infinite 
kindness. In the noble face is blended penitence, with 
the shame forgotten in her strong love; sorrow without 
despair, and faith without boldness. 

The architecture of Genoa might be studied by artists 
to advantage. It has not the meretriciousness of that 
farther south, but combines simplicity, beauty, and 
strength. 

. 1 wish I could speak favourably of the morals of the 
city. The middling classes, composed of merchants, 
lawyers, physicians, &c., are more virtuous than the 
nobility. Among the latter, chastity is not regarded as 
of any particular consequence. The custom of cavaliere 
servante originated here. What would you think to see 
one of the highest officers in the army mingling in the 
highest circles ot the kingdom, while living in open in¬ 
cest, or of a lady of the highest title of nobility, whirling 

* We afterwards heard that the report was untrue. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


99 


in the most fashionable saloons, whose character is no 
better than that of a femme depave? Last night at the 
Casino, my friend introduced a tall officer to an American 
lady by his request. He was minus an eye, and she, 
thinking it was lost in battle, looked in admiration on 
the honourable scar. Alas, it was struck out by the 
dagger of an indignant husband in his own house. An 
Italian woman of rank, without her lover, deems herself 
unfortunate indeed. Italians love, and love wildly, but 
they want new objects. Nothing but the intensity of a 
fresh passion can satisfy them—yet it is no affectation 
with them—it flames up in the heart with a fierceness 
unknown in our cold climate. 

A descendant of Prince Doria is now in the city, 
though seldom seen out of his palace. Engaged to a 
lady of high rank in Rome, he went on a short visit to 
Paris, where he fell in love with a French woman, and 
entered into a contract of marriage also with her. His 
betrothed in Rome hearing of it abandoned herself to 
despair, and pined rapidly away. The news of her sick¬ 
ness and approaching death reaching young Doria at 
Paris, brought back all his old affection, and he hastened 
to Rome, but, alas ! to hear, that only the day before his 
arrival, she was laid in the grave, that receptacle for 
broken and weary hearts. Several young nobles, friends 
of her and her family, bound themselves by an oath never 
to rest till they had slain Doria. He made his escape by 
night, and is now at Genoa in perpetual fear of his life. 
His first love is in her grave—his second has cast him off 
in scorn, and the wreck that both have left him, he has 
time now to muse upon. There are two worlds we live 
in, my dear cousin, and there are wilder battlefields than 
Waterloo in one of them ; and fiercer storms than shake 
navies to pieces, and more terrific volcanoes than out¬ 
ward ones—battlefields of the heart—tempests of feeling, 
and volcanoes of passion. And there are victories, whose 
ruin is greater than defeat—victories tvon over blasted 
affection, by renouncing love and confidence for ever. 
Thus we live—our heads above water, and our hearts 
under it. All the splutter and motion is on the surface, 
but the deep dark tides and boiliDg eddies are beneath. 

Truly yours. 


70 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


XIV. 

The Scenes of the Carnival. Cheating the Church, Blind Man, &c. 

Genoa, 1843. 

Dear E.— The Carnival is over, and the long holiday 
of the Kingdom is closed. The streets look silent and 
lonely ; for the gay placards, announcing a festive scene 
for the night, and which seemed to give elasticity and 
life to the passer-by, are seen no more. The Opera-House 
looks silent and deserted, and all the people feel the 
effect of this sudden suspension of their festivities. The 
church bells have a solemn tone;—the carriages do not 
move so briskly through the streets, and the shops no 
longer hang out their flashy costumes to entice the gay 
masker or dancer of the corning evening. Yon cannot 
conceive the effect of this sudden change from the excess 
of every pleasure to none at all. The festivities of the 
Carnival go on increasing to its close, even to the very 
last hour. And when the great bell of the Cathedral 
strikes the hour of twelve, sending its slow and solemn 
peal over the city, the dissipation of the people is at its 
highest pitch. The city' - fairly reels under the boisterous 
mirth of that last hour of Carnival;—knowing that forty 
days Lent is before them, they crowd the flying minutes 
to overflowing with pleasures. But when the hammer of 
that deep-toned bell announces that the last hour and 
the last minute have expired, all is changed, and the 
masker and the dancer throw aside their follies, and re¬ 
pair to the Churches to offer up their prayers and con¬ 
fessions. 

They have one curious custom, however, at the 
uheatre on the last night. The Pit is cleared of its seats, 
and forms with the stage one grand hall. The whole is 
brilliantly illuminated and filled with maskers and dancers. 

ie laiv is, that no dance shall be commenced after the 
great bell of the Cathedral has struck the hour of mid- 

T hey are not rec l uired > however, to stop in the 
middle ol one already commenced, but are permitted to 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


71 

dance it out. Taking advantage of this law, just before 
midnight, they divide the Orchestra and form a new 
dance. One part of the Orchestra rest till the other be¬ 
come fatigued, when they relieve them. There are always 
enough dancers to keep the set full, and yet half the 
company be resting. In this way the clance is not ended 
till two o’clock. By this simple process they cheat 
the Church out of two good hours. 

As I remarked, the last night is the gayest of all; and 
so is the last day, with the exception, perhaps, of the last 
Sabbath. On these two days they mask in the streets.— 
It was an odd spectacle to see the entire length of the 
main artery of the city literally packed with human 
heads, most of them not attempting to move forward, but 
standing still to see the carriages and grotesque figures 
pass and repass. The carriages would come together in 
a long train, the horses on a slow walk, to escape tram¬ 
pling the multitude under foot, carrying men, women, 
and children, tricked out in every costume that fancy 
could invent. It was impossible to distinguish between 
footmen, drivers, and their lords. Now would pass a 
rich carriage with its coat of arms, and filled with men 
and women of the thirteenth century. Behind it, four 
painted and grotesque figures on four ponies, reading 
aloud a magnificent will, bequeathing any amount of pro¬ 
perty to whoever could get it. Now would pass a buffoon 
on foot, with an immense wooden paddle, with a hole in 
it six inches across for a quizzing-glass. Next, on don¬ 
keys,<■. three persons whom I took from the cut of their 
boots, which dangled below their dress, to be American 
officers. One was in the costume of a woman, with a 
bonnet on, a rich lace shawl over her shoulders, and a 
■white satin dress, which, as she rode astride, was pulled 
back over the tail of the donkey, and descended nearly to 
the ground. The large, rich flounce dangled around his 
fetterlocks, and drew peals of laughter from the specta¬ 
tors. Noses as long as your arm, and steeple-hats like 
Bugar-loves, would project from some elegant carriage.— 
An old woman would meet you carrying a doll bab} r , and 
•weeping piteously over its misfortunes. As the long train 
of carriages approached, the crowd, that literally crammed 
the entire street, would slowly part, like weaves before a 
jnoving vessel,, and when it had passed, like those waves 


72 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


they would again close in behind. In the villages out of 
the city every public square was filled with gay dancers, 
bounding merrily under the light of a pleasant sun and 
an Italian heaven. 

But amid all the shifting and fantastic characters that 
moved and sported around me, there was one plain un¬ 
masked figure that interested me more than all. It was 
an old blind man that I had often seen in the streets 
when the sun was pleasant and the air was mild, led by a 
little child. To-day he was alone, At first I thought I 
was mistaken. It could not be he—thus left alone amid 
the jostling multitude. But there was the same woollen 
cap over the grey hairs—the same old rusty surtout 
coat—the same sightless eyeballs. He had selected a 
part of the street less thronged than the rest, and was 
feeling his way through Strada Balbi—one hand slowly 
passing along the walls of the palaces, and the other 
tremulously grasping a stout cane. But why was he 
there alone so sad and mournful ? He could see nothing 
of this abounding gaiety, and his countenance wore none 
of the mirth that made the street ring around him. No 
one watched him—no one seemed to care for him He 
seemed a walking reproof to the high-blooded andcare- 
h fi 8 “ by * As 1 wat <*ed him hugging 

rfF lwh t r dt - 16 ? lght not be cau S ht away, and borne 
off by the living stream, and with slow and unsteady 

steps threading his way under the shadow of these mighty 

palaces, I immediately divined the whole. He could not 

nd it in his heart to tie the child, that usually piloted him 

in Ins wanderings, to his side, amid such rejoicings. All 

had gone off, leaving the old man behind, as unfit to be 

taken among the crowd. In his solitude he had 

^woii and liear< * th \ murmur and shouts without his 
dwelling, reminding him of his boyish days, till he could 
sit quiet no longer. Alone, unaided, he had groped his 
way into the streets. The tread of hasty feetfthe mirth 
and the laughter, quickened the blood in his old veinis > 
and the scenes of his boyhood came back on hi* farT * 
memory. Half sad, half glad, and haTfVarf.d'^ old 
man passed along, probably for the last time, the streets 

"e f en ,S an a o dWhlr ^ ^ ° f tWri! So I Lave 

een an old blind man in my own country, sitting in the 

mild air of a summer evening, leaning on the top of ills 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 73 

cane, and listening with a sad smile to the laughter and 
mirth of boys at play on the village green. 

Truly yours. 


XV. 


Leghorn. Civita Vecchia. Naples, 

Civita Vecchia, March, 1843. 

Dear E.— I see you staring at the date of this letter, 
and wondering what I have to do in “ Civita Vecchia” 
(old city)—why just nothing at all, only calculating how 
long it will take me to get out of it. I have been in my 
share of villanous towns, but this has a combination of 
qualities in this respect, that defies all comparisons. 
The suburbs are barren as a desert, and the inurbs dirty 
ns a choked up sewer. The people look like cut-throats 
that have starved at their business, and the inside of the 
churches, like the refuse of the almshouse. I walked 
over it with an English lady—an acquaintance of 
Dickens by the way—who tells me that Dickens is 
getting out a work, reflecting on us in a manner that 
will throw his “ Notes on America” entirely in the 
the shade. She says she supposed our rapturous re¬ 
ception of him was occasioned by the fear we had of his 
pen. Shade of Hector defend us ! this is too much . How¬ 
ever, we deserve it, or rather those of my countrymen 
deserve it who out-did Lilliput in their admiration 
of the modern Gulliver; for I plead not guilty 
to the charge of “ fool” in that sublimest of all follies 
ever perpetrated by an intelligent people. I will cry 
i( bravo” to every pasquinade Dickens lets off on that de¬ 
mented class, which cried out every time they saw that 
buffalo-skin over-coat appear, “ The Gods have come 
down to us.’ 

Do you ask me how I got here? by steam ! They charge 
on the Mediterranean steamboats, at the rate of two 
pounds for the distance between New York and Albany. 
Their mode of running, or rather their habit of stopping, 
in very convenient for travellers. We started in the 


74 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


evening- from Genoa, and waked up in the morning ic 
Leghorn. We remained in port all day, allowing the pas¬ 
sengers time to visit Pisa and return. The English 
Cemetery at Leghorn is very beautiful. I walked through 
it to find the tomb of Smollet, and while in quest of it 
met an English lady in search of the same thing; who 
civilly asked me if I could point it out to her. I re¬ 
turned with her to the tomb, and while there, remarked 
to the friend with whom I was in company, that he had 
better pluck a flower, to carry back as a memento to 
America. "What,” said the lady to me, "are you an 
American?” I replied that I was. "And from what 
part of the United States ?” " From New York.” She 
then asked me if I knew a painter by the the name of 
Coates. I told her I did not, but I believed I had seen 
his name in the catalogue of those who had paintings in 
the Academy of Design. She said he was an English¬ 
man by birth, and had removed to New York and mar¬ 
ried an American lady. About the time the President 
was lost, he was expected in England, on his way to 
Italy. Since then he had never been heard of. Much 
anxiety had been felt on his account, and it was feared 
he had gone down in the ill-fated vessel. I replied, I 
supposed it was a very easy matter to determine that,, 
by consulting the list of those who embarked in her. 
"Well,” said she, "if you ever see him in New York, 
tell him you met his mother at Smollet’s tomb,” and 
burst into tears, and turned away. She gave me no op¬ 
portunity of making farther inquiries, and 1 saw her no 
more It struck me as exceedingly singular, that she 
should be his mother, and yet not know whether he 
sunk in the President or not, and still more singular that 
she should expect I would see him before she would even 
know whether he was dead or alive. He must be a 
singular son, or " thereby hangs a tale,” that the mother 
might unfold. 

The wind blew like a hurricane from shore, as we 
came down the coast last night, but the sea kept smooth 
except when we were passing from point to point, across 
some large bay. The steamer was a snug sea-boat, and 
walked with almost noiseless step among the many island® 
that surrounded her. It was nearly midnight when we 
passed Elba, and I cannot describe to you the feelings 
“with which I gazed on that island, casting its great. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


75 


silent shadow over the sea. Bonaparte has left his image 
on every point of land he has touched; but one’s re¬ 
flections of him always end painfully, and the mind runs 
down from Emperor, hero, warrior, to robber, where 
it stops. Strange, but the keen repartee said to have 
been inflicted on him once by an Italian lady, came to me 
as I looked on the Island. Said Napoleon once in com¬ 
pany, speaking of the thieving propensities of the Italians, 
“ tutti gli Italiani sono i ladroni (all the Italians are 
robbers). “ Non tutti, replied the lady, “ ma bona-parte ,” 
not all, but the greater part, or, Bonaparte. This 
is almost too good to be true. 

I forgot to mention one thing of Civita Vecchia, and 
which I here record to the honour of the only decent 
man in it. The Englishwoman and myself were walking 
around the town, and finally, as promising some relief, 
stepped to the walls of the city for the purpose of look¬ 
ing off upon the sea; but at every attempt we were re¬ 
pulsed by a soldier, who said it was forbidden. The 
silliness of the command, just as if it were possible that 
any living man could be such an unmitigated fool as to 
wish to reconnoitre the walls for the purpose of ascertain¬ 
ing their weakness, so as one of these days to scale them, 
made me resolve to resist it. So stepping up to a soldier, 
who had just driven us back, I said in my blandest tone, 
u Why, you cannot be so ungallant as to refuse to permit 
a lady to look over the walls just for one moment .” He 
looked around to see if any one was watching, and 
replied, “Well, for one moment, I don’t care, but only 
one moment.” I had conquered, so stepping up, we 
looked over, and lo, we saw—nothing. I thanked the 
fellow for his civility, and if I had any influence with 
his Holiness, he should be immediately promoted. 

Naples. 

It was a beautiful evening when we wheeled out of the 
contemptible little port of Civita Vecchia, and sped off 
for Naples. The wind had lulled, and the sea rolled with 
a gentle swell as our gallant little steamer shot along the 
Italian coast. Just at sunset we came opposite the 
Tiber, where it empties into the sea at Ostia, the ancient 
port of Rome. The dome of St. Peter’s frowned grey 
in the distance, backed by snow peaks, and I began to 
feel the influence of the “ eternal city” upon me. Around 


76 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


that port had clustered the Roman galleys, laden with 
the spoils of a successful war—on their way to Caesar’s 
palace. What a change the centuries had wrought! I 
could not but picture to myself how Caesar would have 
looked, if when lying off this port with his fleet, he had 
seen a steamer, breathing fire and smoke from her decks, 
and without sail, driving right down against wind and 
sea upon him. Methinks he would have told his helms¬ 
man, notwithstanding he “ bore the great Caesar,” he had 
better haul a little closer in shore, and all the galleys 
would have huddled like frightened swans into Ostia, 
Really Caesar’s galley did look small beside our steamer. 
All this time my friend stood leaning over the rail, and 
gazing off on the shore looking as if memory was busy 
with the mighty past. But just when I was expecting 
some extremely poetical sentiment, he drily remarked, 
without looking up, as he knocked the ashes from his 
cigar, “I wonder if Cassius ever did swim across that 
river with Caesar on his back.” 


At length the full round moon rose over the scene, 
turning the sea into a floor of diamonds, over which our 
vessel went curtseying, as if herself half conscious of the 
part she was acting in front of old Rome. All seemed 
to feel the inspiration of the hour, and were scattered 
arouna on the moonlit deck in silent musing. It was an 
hour when home and its memories visit the spirit, and the 
heart travels back over the long interval to its place of 
iepose. A Russian baroness and her niece, a sweet Fin- 
landese, who were leaning over the side of the ship, hum¬ 
ming fragments of melodies, at length burst into a native 
Kong, sending their rich voices far over the moonlit sea. 
A handsome Greek stood by with his dark eye and solemn 
face, dunking■ m the poetry of the scene and the music of 
the strain, till unable longer to contain his feelings, he 
bowed his head on the bulwarks and covered his face 
With his hands. A French count sat on the quarter-deck 
ic mg his heels against the cabin, humming snatches 
Tom some opera by way of accompaniment to the song 
He seemed quite unconscious of the discords he was 
making, while the Finlandese would ever and anon turn 
her Mue eves inquiringly towards him, as if she would 
ask what he were trying to do, till she could contain her- 
eelf no lon & er > and burst into a clear laugh, that rang al- 


TRAVELS IX ITALY. 


77 


most as musical as her song. This broke up the poetry of 
the scene, and we subsided away into a good-natured 
chit-chat, until one after another dropped off into the 
cabin, and my friend and myself were left alone with the 
moon and night. That glorious moonlight sail along the 
coast of Italy has left its bright impression on my heart 
forever. 

As I rose in the morning and went on deck, the first 
object that arrested my attention was the top of Vesuvius, 
which I caught through a notch in the mountain, sending 
up its dark column of smoke in the morning air. Islands 
came and passed us, till at length, rounding a point of 
land, the far-famed Bay of Naples opened before us. I 
cannot say the entrance struck me as peculiarly beautiful 
—the approach to Genoa is far more impressive. There*' 
is no striking back-ground of hills, and with the excep¬ 
tion of St. Elmo,‘ there is nothing on which the eye rests 
with peculiar interest. The beauty of the bay is seen in 
riding round it. In this aspect it is unequalled, for 
wherever you go there bends that same beautiful curve, 
sprinkled with villages, while Capri and Ischia sleeps 
quietly out at sea. Take away the associations of both, 
and I think a stranger would be more impressed with the 
entrance to New York harbour, than with the entrance to 
the Bay of Naples. Association is everything. Clothe 
the shore with buried cities, and spread an air of romance 
over every hill-top, and it is wonderful how different 
rugged nature will look. On the other hand, let all the 
associations be those of commerce, and the most beauti¬ 
ful scenery will have a very matter-of-fact appearance. 
There is a dreamy haze over everything around Naples 
that gives its scenery a soft and subdued aspect; added; 
to this, there is a dreamy haze also over the spirit, so that 
it is quite impossible to see ordinary defects. But don’t 
misunderstand me—the Bay of Naples viewed from shore 
is the most beautiful bay I have ever seen; but, ap¬ 
proached from the sea, inferior to that of New York. 
Set Vesuvius in motion, and pour its lava in fire-torrents 
down the breast of the mountain, lighting up the shore 
and sea, and painting in lines of blood on the water each 
approaching vessel, and make a canopy of cinders and 
sparks borne hither and thither by the night wind, while 
the steady working of the fierce volcanic engine is like 


78 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


the sound of thunder on the sea—and I grant you that 
the approach to Naples would be unrivalled. 

Truly yours. 


XVI. 

Visit to Pompeii. Ruins. Character of the People. 

Naples, March, 1845. 

Dear E.—The Neapolitan maxim, “ Vedi Napoli e pot 
mori ”—“ See Naples and then die,”—is not so egotis¬ 
tical. The man who dies without seeing it, that is, in 
one of its most favourable aspects, loses no ordinary 
pleasure. There is a combination of scenery here to be 
found nowhere else, though particular portions of it may 
be seen in every country. But here is a beautiful bay, 
islands, cities, villages, palaces, vineyards, plains, moun¬ 
tains, and volcanoes, gathered into one “ coup-d’ceil .” 
There is the grandeur of the past, and the beauty of the 
present; ruined temples, and perfect ones; living cities, 
and buried ones ; and over them all a sky that would 
make any country lovely, however rugged. Day before 
yesterday I rode out to Pompeii. At eight o’clock I 
landed from the steam-boat—at ten I was on my way 
with an English gentleman and lady for the city of the 
dead. It lies twelve miles distant; and in the clear air 
and new objects that surrounded me, I forgot the object 
that had hurried me away. Now an old-looking vehicle 
would pass us, whose shape could hardly be made out, 
from the number of ragged, dirty beings that covered it 
*—standing, sitting, lying, and indeed piled up in every 
direction, so as to occupy the least possible space. I 
counted on several of these two-wheeled, one-horsed 
vehicles, ten persons. There would sit a row of misera¬ 
ble-looking women outside of their houses, all engaged 
m the same occupation —looking heads . Here a little 
urchin would be sitting on the ground, with his head 
between the knees of a woman who was busy with his 
head, while behind her stood a third performing the same 
kind service, and all forming a group both ludicrous and 



TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


79 


revolting. In another direction would stand a man in 
the streets with a plate in one hand, while from the other, 
lifted over his head, which was thrown back to a horizon¬ 
tal position, hung in tempting profusion long strings of 
maccaroni, which disappeared down his neck like young 
snakes in the throat of their mother. Thus we passed 
along through Torre del Greco, and the ancient Oplonti, 
and then emerged into the open country, where the piled- 
up lava and barren hill-sides reminded us that we were 
approaching a scene of volcanic fury. Yet here and there 
were green patches from which the balmy bean sent forth 
its fragrance, contrasting strangely with the lava walls 
that enclosed them. 

We at length reached the gate of the ancient city, 
where we left our carriage, and commenced the strangest 
city promenade I ever made. I had always supposed that 
Pompeii was like Herculaneum, and that one must descend 
to enter it. But the buried city formed a hill, and is 
excavated from a level, so that you enter it as you would 
any other town. We first entered the house of Diomed, 
one of the aristocrats of the city. We descended into the 
damp, dark wine cellar, where the bones of his family 
were found, whither they had fled for safety from the 
storm of ashes and fire that overwhelmed them. There, 
against the side of the wall, amid the earthen wine-jars 
that still stood as they did on the last day of that wild 
tempest, was the shape of the outstretched arms and the 
breast and head of her who had fallen against it in her 
death-agony. Nothing remained but the bones and jewels 
to tell the sad story of her torture and suffocation in that 
dread hour. But I cannot go into details. They have 
been written over a hundred times. There were baths, 
and dressing and dining-rooms, and work-shops, and 
wheel-worn streets, where the living multitude had 
moved, and luxuriated, and toiled. We saw tombs that 
were themselves entombed ; rooms for washing the dead, 
where the living were suddenly buried unwashed and 
uncoffined ; beer-shops, with the marks of tumblers still 
fresh in the smooth marble—and the mill-stones that still 
turned to the hand in the self-same way they turned 
nearly two thousand years ago. Tiiere too was the 
brothel, and theatre, and dancing-hall. The secret 
orifice through which the priest sent his voice to the 
atatue, to delude the people into the belief that the 


t 


80 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


god had spoken, -was now disclosed. I walked through 
le house of a poet, into his garnished sleeping apartments 
formmg ln their silence, a part in a greater drama than he 
had ever conceived. I stood before the tavern with the 
rings yet entire to winch the horses were fastened and 
where the bon., of a mother and her three children 
found locked in each other’s arms. Temples were over¬ 
thrown with their altars. The niches in which stood tL 
gods were left empty, and the altarsbefore then?‘on 
which smoked the sacrifice, were silent and lonely 
Columns fallen across each other in the courts just as that 
wild hurricane had left them, pieces of the architrave 
blocking up the entrances they had surmounted told how 

t vf !i 10C i and overthrow had been. One house 
as evidently that of a remarkably rich man. Mosaic 

2 rs , representing battle scenes, precious stones still 
embedded in the pavements of his corridors lonp colon* 
nades, and all the appurtenances of luxury ’ attested thp 

?o 1 u D 0 dfn1t W Tl, th °V he B '“ ”» boSVe'r l 

wealth before the sto™ cTn^.^Ve pa^ed & 
temple °f J upiter the court of Justice, the Forum the 

above the windows, and so optin’ itf j t . hr( ' sholds r 
thirty feet above the tops ofthe housej tfj 
sea where the younger Plinv ranw a . ere was ^be 
fatal curiosity, would land fill' nr ir ^P e ^ e d by a 

he too fell with the^victims’that perished “* 3Uff0Cated ’ 

glad'iatorial^ho'ws'were ‘held * 6 where th¬ 
an oval form, and sufficiency canacionC.o to ld ° f 

twenty thousand spectators. The dens where fh?!f W 

SS S, Ka "S 

»«*~«5 .i s 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


81 


distinct as a second voice. It enhanced the solitude. 
Some have imagined that spectators were assembled here 
at the time of the overthrow of the city, and as they felt 
the first step of the mighty earthquake that heralded its 
doom, rushed in dismay from their seats. But this could 
not be, for Pompeii did not fall by an earthquake, and the 
mountain, long before the eruption, gave terribly distinct 
omens of the coming blow. Dio relates that spectres 
lined the summit of the mountain, and unearthly shapes 
flitted around its trembling sides. This was doubtless 
the mist boiling up from its confinement through the 
crevices, and shooting into the upper air. Pliny himself 
says in his epistle that he saw from Misenus, fifteen or 
twenty miles distant from Naples on the other side, a 
cloud rising from the mountain in the shape of a pine tree, 
and shortly after embarked for the city. The groaning 
mountain was reeling above the sea of fire that boiled 
under her, and struggled for freedom. It was not a time 
for amusement. Terrified men and women ran for the 
sea; that also fled back affrighted from its shores, so that 
even Pliny could not land before the city, but was forced 
to proceed to Stabiee. The bellowing mountain, the 
sulphureous air, the quivering earth, would not let a city 
even so dissolute as Pompeii gather to places of public 
amusement. Consternation reigned in every street, and 
drove the frightened inhabitants away from their dwellings. 
This is doubtless the reason why so few bodies were 
found. Those that perished were slaves, or those who 
tarried till some fallen column or wall blocked up their 
path, and the descending cinders blinded their sight as 
they groped about for a way of egress. Fear and dark¬ 
ness (for day was turned into night) might have enthralled 
others beyond the power-of moving. And 1 was standing 
on the same pavement those terror-stricken citizens stood 
on two thousand years ago, and was looking on the same 
mountain they gazed on with such earnest inquiry and 
fearful forebodings. Then it rocked and swayed and 
thundered above the pent-up forces that threatened to 
send it in fragments through the heavens. Now, silent 
and quiet, it stood firm on its base. Yet to me it had a 
morose and revengeful look, as if it were conscious of the 
ruin at its feet. 

The excavations are more extensive than I supposed, 

F 


( 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


82 

and the effect of the clear light of the sun and the open 
sky on the deserted pavement is peculiar and solemn. A 
visit to it is an episode in a man’s life that he can never 
forget. An old column or a broken wall of a once po¬ 
pulous city interests us. We stand and muse over the 
ruined pile till it becomes eloquent with the history of 
the past. If one single complete temple be found, how 
it increases the interest. But to wander through a 
whole city standing as its inhabitants left it in their 
sudden fear, adds tenfold to the vividness of the picture, 
lne little household things meeting you at every turn 
give speciality to the whole. As I strolled from a par t- 
merit to apartment, I almost expected to meet some one 
within the door. I felt like an intruder as I passed into 
the sleeping rooms of others—as if I were entering the 
private apartments of those who were merely absent on 
a ride ora visit. The scenes were familiar, and it ap- 
peared but a short time since the eyes of those who 
occupied the dwellings rested on the same objects. In 
turning the corners of the streets, it would hardly have 
surprised me to have met the inhabitants just returning, 
and looking on me as a stranger and an intruder. It 

S U ln ea a *S e ^ Tt t0 convince myself that these streets 
and these dwellings were thronged and occupied for the 
last time nearly two thousand years ago. I assure you 

TfF t w f£ ot J° callu P the past, but to shake it 

off and when I finally stood at the gate and gave a 

liebt^nf +h° 0k t ?f the l0nely city that faintly shone in the 
* 4 I, 6 Settln ° sur J; a f eelmg of indescribable sad- 

everto seeiragaTn.’ Ir ° de aWay Without the 

f the bay > aI,d the car eless laughing 

Tho f me ^ s t 0 P? soon restored our spirits 

The streets were filled with loungers, all expressing in 

looks the Neapolitan 

f 1 ™ er i te (it is sweet to say nothing). You have 

Unsuane of «,e g N eye f.f Dd raven treSi *s and music-like 

is nothlL lit. i?t P *? nS; but I <*n assure you there 
thing like it here, 1 . e. among the lower classes 

our lnd Ls'i^TT that 1 ° an detect between them and 
tiful nfti *’ that “or wild bloods are the more beau- 

ver! A! W0 ; Tbe C0l0ur is ‘'’e same, the hair is 

thev d t 6 ® d> and f L t0 the “ soft bastard Latin ” 

J ey speak, it is one of the most abominable dialects I 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


83 


ever heard. I know this is rather shocking to one’s ideas 
of Italian women. 1 am sure I was prepared to view 
them in a favourable, nay, in a poetical light; but amid 
all the charms and excitements of this romantic land, I 
cannot see otherwise. The old women are hags, and the 
young women dirty, slip-shod slatterns. Talk about 
“bright-eyed Italian maids!” Among our lower classes 
there are five beauties to one good-looking woman here. 
It is nonsense to expect beauty among a population that 
live in filth, and eat the vilest substances to escape the 
horrors of starvation. Wholesome food, comfortable 
apartments, and cleanly clothing, are indispensable to 
physical beauty; and these the Italians, except the upper 
classes, do not have. The filthy dens in which they are 
crammed, the tattered garments in which they are but 
half hid, and haggard faces of hundreds of unfed women 
and children that meet me at every step as I enter the 
city at night, overthrow all the pleasures of the day, and 
I retire to my room angry with that political and social 
system that requires two-thirds to die of starvation, 
that the other third may die of surfeit. The King of 
Naples has five palaces, while thousands of his subjects 
have not one blanket. 

Men talk of travelling when the mind is matured, but 
I advise every one who wishes to enjoy Italy to visit it 
before he has thought of the irregularities and miseries of 
the world. Let him come into this beautiful clime while 
the imagination holds supreme sway, and life is a golden 
dream. He then will see but its temples and arts, hear 
but the voice of the past, and grow enthusiastic on a soil 
where every stone is a monument, and every wall a his¬ 
tory. I could weep when I see the havoc that tyranny 
and avarice make of the happiness of man. Why is it 
that these thousands around me should weep and suffer 
and die, that one lazy Prince may gorgeously furnish five 
palaces he enters but five times a year? Why should 
Lazzaroni multiply to be cursed by every stranger, merely 
that a few lazy nobles may turn a whole country into 
beautiful villas to gallop through? Italy abounds in 
lovely scenery, and is rich in classic associations; but he 
must be a stupid observer, or a heartless one, who can 
see and feel nothing else. As I wander through the 
grounds of a princely noble, I enjoy the beauty and taste 
that surround me, until mounting some point of view I 


84 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


look down on a lovely country filled with half-fed men, 
and then I could hang him on one of his own oaks. 
There stands a glorious statue, but under it lies a live 
sufferer. There is a magnificent church, but on its ample 
steps are heaps of rags, each enveloping a living, suffer¬ 
ing man. But, as the Italians say, “ la pazienza e la con - 
fidenza ” Yes—patience and confidence: for the ridi¬ 
culous farce of Kings will have an end, and humanity yet 
shake off its rags and lay aside its shame, and assert and 
take its long-withheld rights. 

Yours, &c. 


XVII. 


Ascent of Vesuvius. 


Naples March, 1813. 

Dear E. —We have been to mount Vesuvius, and to-day 
has been one of the richest days of my life. The morning 
was bright and clear, and the road lay along the Bay of 
Naples. We made a short stop at Portici, where the 
King has a palace. It is beautifully situated, with gar¬ 
dens and promenades around it, and all the luxuries that 
royalty can so easily afford. The taste and beauty of the 
interior, however, are chiefly owing to Madame Murat, 
the ex-Queen of Naples, who reformed not only this, but 
all the royal palaces of the city. When the dethroned 
Ferdinand returned from Sicily, he was exceedingly 
pleased with the improvements his conqueror had made, 
and very good-humouredly remarked that “ Murat was 
an excellent upholsterer.” The portraits of Napoleon’s 
and Murat’s families are still there, and said to be ex¬ 
cellent likenesses. The whole palace is in excellent taste, 
but the only thing remarkable in it is a porcelain room, 
the walls and ceilings of which are entirely covered with 
china from the celebrated manufactory of Capo di Monti, 
specimens of which are now seldom found. These porce- 
am pauels are painted with landscapes, and bordered 
with wreaths in alto-relievo; coloured like life, and as 
a rgej with squirrels and birds mingled in charming con- 



TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


85 


fusion. The frames of the mirrors and the chandeliers are 
of the same material, and the effect of the whole is sin¬ 
gular and pleasing. I hurried through the rooms, anxious 
to be on the side of Vesuvius. 

We soon came to the place where horses and donkeys 
are taken for the ascent, and here a scrambling and 
squalling and quarrelling commenced that would not have 
disgraced a steamboat landing at New York. In the 
morning when we started, a man mounted the box of the 
carriage with the driver, as if he owned it. I asked him 
what he was doing there. He inquired if I did not wish 
a guide. I replied, “ Yes, of course, to ascend the moun¬ 
tain.” Supposing all was right, we went on. But here 
I discovered that a horse could not be had without a 
guide to accompany him. I turned to my friend of the 
coach-box and asked what this meant, and why he had 
presumed to fasten himself on me in this way. He 
seemed to be somewhat flustered, but replied with a great 
deal of suavity, “Oh, sir, to see you are not cheated, and 
to have everything arranged on your return.” “ I can 
take care of that,” said I; “ I don’t mean to be cheated 
by you or others either.” But the day was advancing, 
and this was no place or time to quarrel with him, for it 
would only swell the Babel that already clattered around 
me. My friend at length mounted a good-looking horse, 
while the most villanous donkey that ever went unsheared 
was led up to me. I asked my supernumerary guide if 
this was the animal he had come thus far to provide me 
with. He said he thought it was an excellent beast. I 
replied I was sorry I could not agree with him, and de¬ 
liberately walked away. The owner then threw himself 
before me, with his demure, shaggy, long-eared friend, 
determined I should take him. I asked him if he called 
that a horse. “ No, your excellency, but an eccellentissimo 
Ass.” “ No,” said I, very coolly, you are mistaken ; it is 
neither an ass nor a horse.” He looked in astonishment 
at me, as much as to say, “What do you mean? what is 
it then ” The others had become quiet by this time, and 
stood waiting the issue. “ Why,” said I, “ don’t you see 
it's a rat —a large water-rat —you are wishing me to ride.” 
The men looked at each other in astonishment for a mo¬ 
ment, and then burst into a loud laugh. Seeing I was not 
to be duped, they led me out a very nice grey pony, which 
I mounted, and galloped away. 


80 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


•mJf 9 - g j^ e ’ Wlttl a ^rong stick in one hand, seized 
y friend s horse by the tail, and trotted after. The 
ascent for some time was gradual, the road passing 

of rh?L7 neya f 01 ? W , Mch Lachr y ma Christi, tear! 
of Chnst(as a certain kind of wine is called), is made. 

gradually grew drearer until we came to the 

O ion of pure lava. I can convey to you no idea 

cites 16 f Thp ngS -f thlS utt , erl 3f 1 barr en lava-desert at first ex- 
1 lts spreads, black, hroken and rough, just as 

it cooled m its slow and troubled march for the sea! J Here 
it met an obstacle and rose into a barrier ; there it fell off 
into ridges that cracked and broke into fragments till the 
whole inclined plain that spreads off from the base of the 
pyramid in which is the crater, appears as if the earth had 

&rIst en to y tt a s ken r tlH al i the W and portions 
t0 th stmace ‘ Sometimes you can trace for 
ome distance a sort of circular wall of cooled lava hp 
h.nd which the red-hot stream had gathered and Iw ed 

N n° thin * coufd be ™ “drea^Ind 

desolate. Through this barren tract I was nassin/in * 
narrow path. My eye wandered hither and thither° over 
the scathed and blackened mass, but always came back 

ridge'of°earth to P sil «>tly ascended a 

^ the Hermitage. 16 &reac^i^^could £eo» 

d sCtion ry t! * C ° mpany " the same 

as: 

"worthy care As T wna a i rt t X with most praise- 

I saw^n the di.ta.ce twfntvoVXT* “T rOU ? h tract > 
saddled and hridleH ... ,, - thirty mules and horses, 

pea k ; amidst the lit ™d T theT* at the ba9e of tbe 
an Arab camp in the desert ' open mountain side, like 

and began the^lm^t^ndifu a^ent ° d ’ Sm ° aUted ’ 

dwarfs clinging to 

himrto^Ttatrvirr id 

it away, as I could take care of myself. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


87 


Half-way up we came upon a snow-bank, on which I 
cooled my parched lips. Again and again we were com¬ 
pelled to rest, but without regret, for whenever we turned 
our eyes below, they were met by one of the most magni¬ 
ficent prospects the sun ever shone upon. There were 
the Bay of Naples, the islands of Capri and Ischia, beyond 
which the blue Mediterranean melted away into the mild 
horizon ; nearer slept the city, with its palaces and towers, 
while far inland, on, on, till the eye grew dim with the 
extended prospect, swept away the whole “ ccimpagna 
felicef or happy country, in a glorious panorama of vil¬ 
lages, villas, fields, and vineyards. Around me was piled 
lava that had once poured in a red-hot stream where I 
sat; and close beneath me an immense cavity, where a 
volcano had once raged and died. When near the top, as I 
stood looking off on the world below, a dense cloud of mist, 
borne by the wind, swept over and around me, blotting 
out in an instant everything from my sight. A cold 
breeze accompanied it, and the sudden change from broad 
sunlight and an almost boundless prospect, to sudden 
twilight and a few feet of broken lava, was so chilling 
and gloomy, that it for a moment damped my ardour. 
Our guide, however, told us it would soon pass, so we 
rallied our spirits and pushed on. 

At length we reached the top, and lo, a barren, desolate, 
uneven field spread out before us, filled with apertures, 
from which were issuing jets of steam, and over which 
blew a cold and chilling wind, while fragments of mist 
traversed it like spirits fleeing from the gulf that yawned 
behind them. Passing over this with dainty footsteps, 
and feeling every moment as if the crust would break be¬ 
neath our feet, we reached at last the verge of the crater, 
and the immense basin, with its black, smoking cone in 
the centre, was below us. From the red-hot mouth boiled 
out fast and fierce, an immense column of smoke, accom¬ 
panied at intervals with a heavy sound, and jets of red- 
hot scoria. This was more than I anticipated. I ex¬ 
pected to see only a crater, and a smouldering heap. But 
the mountain was in more than common agitation, and 
had been throughout the winter. It seemed to sympa¬ 
thize with Etna and other volcanoes that appear to have 
chosen this year for a general waking up. I could com¬ 
pare it to nothing but the working of an immense steam- 
engine. It had a steady sound like the working of a 


88 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


T hile at t 0rt intervals the valve seemed 
o lift aud the steam would escape with an explosion and 

at the same time the black smoke and lurid blaze shoot 
from the mouth, and the red-hot scoria rise forty or fifty 
feet mto the am. At the moment of explosion, the month 
of the cone seemed in a blaze, and thi masses of ?cor a 

thrown out, some of which would weigh fifteen or twenty 
pounds, resembled huge gouts of blood-they were oTthat 

time P InS C e'°r Ur ' T 1 deemed ^tunatefn the 

•m-rt i,a 1 1 ^’ Por .^ saw a real, living —or as Carlvlp 

would say, an authenticated volcano. There was a truth 

aTftI C rl" ^oVtha** 

aETh’aTwere^g^onVndef h^“ That"’ 6 ^ 

SStiSSSS 

in the steam issuing from one thi * ^ b<?en C °° ked 

passed. My friend fat down very delibSw to Zf i? 4 
I took mine in mv hand mnni, • uenoeratdy to eat his. 

absorbed in the actions ofth* Jwn* y> bu * Was to ° much 
Pat cin^n tenons ot the sullen monster below in 

that had preceded?? h^r ^ eX i Plosion louder than any 
the air My hand LoTun^p 8 ! ^erang^ niass into 
egg, and I w'as rLZt2™** 

out very deliberately at my feet to know 

doing. Hooked down T l Lnow what I was 

the shell from his egg, while^J/wasr ‘^ ^ U1Gtly . pickin ^ 
volcano over his back m 1! S nningaminiatur e 
and there lay the crashed S lde 7l,°P ened "V hand, 
fast spreading overmvfrfpifa’’ T h,le J t ^ e conte “‘a were 
Outright, sacrnegiofs Jit wfs 8 «„ r0adC L° th - 1 lau ^ed 

imagination you have so often aenia n j UC1 ^°. u see f° r *he 
lost my egg, while mv L me about - I had 

enjoyed not’only tin?,eating oTto bu/tK,“° reCOolly ’ 

“"""'"•■'■I'*™"," rt.s;Vta 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


8 $ 


matter for me. Both hands and feet had never before 
been in such urgent requisition. The path at times was 
not a foot wide, and indeed was not a path, but clefts in 
the rocks, where often a single mis-step would have sent 
one to the bottom of the crater; while lava rocks, cracked 
at their base, and apparently awaiting but a slight touch 
to shake them down on you, hung overhead. Frequently 
my only course was to lie against the rock and cling 
with my hands to the projecting points, while ever and 
anon, from out some aperture would shoot jets of stream 
so impregnated with sulphur as almost to strangle me. 
My guide would then be hid from my sight, and I had 
nothing to do but hang on and cough, while I knew 
that a thousand feet were above and below me. At 
other times the crater would be filled with vapour up to- 
the rim, shrouding everything from our sight, even the 
the fiery cone, while we hung midway on the rocks and 
stood and listened. Amidst the rolling vapour I could 
hear the churning of that tremendous engine, and the ex¬ 
plosion that sent the scoria into the air; and then, after a 
moment of deep silence, the clatter of the returning frag¬ 
ments, like hail-stones on dry leaves, far, far below me. 
It was sufncenrly startling and grand, to stand half-way 
down that crater, with your feet on smoking sulphur and 
your hand on rocks so hot that you shrank from the 
touch, and gaze down on that terrific fire-energy, without 
wrapping it in gloom and adding deeper mystery to its 
already mysterious workings. A puff of air would then 
sweep through the cavity, dashing the mist against its 
sides and sending it like frightened spirits over the verge. 
I almost expected to see a change when the light again 
fell on it, but there it stood, churning on as steady and 
stern as ever. 

We at length reached the bottom, and sitting down 
at a respectful distance from the base of the cone, en¬ 
joyed the sublime spectacle. There we were, deep 
down in the bowels of the mountain, while far up on the 
brink of the crater like children in size, sat a group of men 
sending their hurrah down at every discharge of scoria. 
Before me ascended the column of rolling smoke, while 
every few seconds the melted mass was ejected into the 
air with a report that made me measure rather wistfully 
the distance between us and the top. Our guide took 
some coppers, and as the scoria fell a little distance off,. 


90 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


he would run up the sides of the cone, drop them in the 
smaller portions, and retreat before a second discharge. 
It was amusing to see how coolly he would stand and 
look up to the descending fragments of fire, some of 
which, had they struck him, would have crushed him to 
the earth, and calculate their descent so nicely that with 
a slight movement he could escape each. When the 
scoria cooled, the coppers were left imbedded in it, and 
thus carried off as remembrances of Vesuvius. We went 
around the crater, continually descending until we came 
to the lowest pare, close to the base of the cone. Here 
the lava was gathering and cooling and cracking off 
in large rolls, with that low continuous sound which is 
always made by the rapid cooling of an intensely heated 
mass. I ascended a little eminence which the lava was 
slowly undermining, and thrust my cane into the molten 
substance. It was so hot that I had to cover my face 
with my cap in order to hold my stick in it for a single 
moment. As I stood and saw fold after fold slowly roll 
over and fall off, and heard the firing of the volcano 
above me, and saw, nearly a hundred feet over my head, 
red-hot masses of scoria suspended in the air, I am not 
ashamed to say I felt a little uncomfortable. I looked 
above and around, and saw that it needed but a slight 
tremulous motion to confine me there for ever. It was 
not the work of five or ten minutes to reach the lofty 
top, and a little heavier discharge of fire—a small shower 
of ashes and I should have been smothered or crisped in 
a moment. There may have been no danger, but one 
cannot escape the belief of it when at times he is com¬ 
pelled to dodge flaming masses of scoria, that otherwise 
would smite him to the earth. 

. We ascended by a different and much easier path. It 
is longer, but far preferable to the one we came down. It 
led us to the other side of the crater, from which we looked 
down on Pompeii. I could trace the stream of lava to 
the plam, and could well imagine the consternation 
of the inhabitants of the doomed city, as the storm of 
ashes shot oft for its bosom. W eary and exhausted, we 
descended by a different route through a bed of ashes that 
reached from the top to the bottom of the hill, mounted 
our horses and rode homeward. The glorious plain was 
spread out before us, but we were too tired to enjoy it. 
At the bottom of the hill we found our supernumerary 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


91 


guide half-drunk on our credit, who told us he had soup, 
fish, beef, fowl, fruit, et cetera, provided for our enter¬ 
tainment in a neighbouring house, which proved to be a 
hovel The provisions, he said, had cost but little more 
than a dollar, while the man asked only about the same 
for cooking them. I was thoroughly vexed, and told him 
to say to the man he might have the provision to pay for 
cooking them ; and as for him, I considered him the great¬ 
est scoundrel I had yet met with, and I had seen many. 
He replied that he regarded me as his son—that he would 
not see me cheated of a grana for the world. I told him 
1 thought the proofs of his affection were rather dubious, 
that it had cost me about twelve shillings that day, and it 
was altogether too expensive for me ; and I thought, not¬ 
withstanding the intensity of his love, that we had better 
part. And yet, would you believe it, this fellow had the 
impudence to come up to the carriage and ask me to make 
him a present of a few carlines, as a sort of farewell 
gift! It was really the coolest rascality I had yet en¬ 
countered. But the day passed away, and the evening, 
with its welcome repose, came. That night I slept, as I 
had never slept before. It was like oblivion, it was so 
deep and unbroken. 

Truly yours. 


XVIII. 

The Ladies of Italy and the Ladies of America. 

Naples, March, 1843. 

Dear E.—Who has not heard the exclamations, “ The 
black-eyed Beauties of Italy—The Blue Heavens of 
Italy!” and that, too, in contrast with our own beautiful 
women and clear atmosphere, until he has dreamed of a 
sunny land wreathed with rivers, and filled with radiant, 
passionate creatures ? At another time I shall contrast 
the climates. 

At present, reversing the rules of rhetoric, I take the 
most interesting objects first; and as to these dark-eyed 
beauties—dark-eyed enough though they are, and very 



92 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


pretty withal—yet, like many other things in this worlds 
they appear much better when dreamed about, with four 
thousand miles of ocean between us, than when looked 
at from these promenades dressed d la Franqais. It is 
not the partiality one naturally feels for his country¬ 
women that governs me, when I say that the beautiful 
women with us stand to them in the proportion of five to 
one. Walk on a pleasant day at the promenading hour 
from the Astor House to Bleecker-street, and you shall 
see more beautiful women than you will find in any 
Italian city, though you walk it a month. Similar con¬ 
trasts might be drawn between many other things in the 
two countries, in which we have heretofore suffered un¬ 
justly. This declaration cannot be attributed to preju¬ 
dice, for you know I was a perfect child in my enthu¬ 
siasm for Italy. It was the land of my early dreams—■ 
the one bright vision in all my scholar’s life, and when 
its blue hills rose on my view I felt like the pilgrim as he 
catches the first glimpse of the Prophet’s Tomb from afar. 
Yet the truth “ maun be said.”—Perhaps one would see 
more beauty were the young ladies permitted to appear 
more in society. The foolish custom of shutting them up 
in convents, occupied with their studies, until married 
off by their parents, still prevails. It is, however, losing 
somewhat of its ancient force, especially in Tuscany. 
The truth is, we have derived our ideas of Italy from 
England, which is not distinguished for its beautiful pea¬ 
santry. Accustomed also to the light hair and fresh 
complexion of the Saxon race, the English fall in raptures 
at sight of the dark-eyed beauties of the South. The 
same is true of climate. Coming from the fogs of Lon¬ 
don, where the sun seems made in vain, they are in 
ecstacies with the bright heavens of Italy. The sky is 
at times like a sapphire dome, and its blue often of a 
peculiar tinge ; but the difference, in this respect, between 
it and our own is not so great as many imagine. 

Genoa has been regarded from time immemorial as the 
most celebrated of all Italian cities, for the beauty of its 
women. In that city I resided nearly six months, and 
mingled freely in every class of society. Being an invited 
guest to all the large assemblies and soirees of the no- 
bihty, I had every opportunity of seeing its society in its 
most brilliant colouring. I shall never forget my disap¬ 
pointment at the first great soiree I attended. I expected 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


93 


to be dazzled by the array of beauty, as it was given by 
the highest officer of the city, but did not see but one 
really pretty woman during the evening. It is rather 
singular also that those who have the reputation of being 
beauties, among the Italians, usually have the light hair 
and eyes and fair skin of the Saxon race; indeed the most 
beautiful women I have seen here have been English 
women. My taste may not be correct, but there is a 
character in the expression of an English woman’s face 
that you look for in vain in an Italian. It has also, a 
half proud look, which I like, although it gives a coldness 
to her manner. 

At the casinos in this country, I have often met the 
entire beauty of the upper classes of the city; and al¬ 
though certainly many very pretty women were present, 
yet the average of beauty was low. With fourteen rooms 
thrown open, and all so crowded that one could hardly 
move, one would expect some beauty in any citv, and he 
finds it here; but I am quite sure if national beauty is 
worth being proud of, we can boast over Italy—that is, 
in our women; I wish I could say as much of the men. 
It is not so easy to decide on the peasantry; they differ 
so much in different provinces. Sometimes you may 
travel all day and see nothing but the ugliest faces, and 
you wonder how nature could have gone so awry in 
every instance; and then again in another province you 
see at every step the beautiful eye and lash, and flexible 
brow, and laughing face of your true Italian beauty. 

In form the Italians excel us. Larger, fuller, they 
naturally acquire a finer gait and bearing. It is astonish¬ 
ing that our ladies should persist in that ridiculous 
notion that a small waist is, and, per necessita, must be 
beautiful. Why, many an Italian woman would cry for 
vexation, if she possessed such a waist as some of our 
ladies acquire, only by the longest, painfullest process. 
I have sought the reason of this difference, and can see 
no other than that the Italians have their glorious 
statuary continually before them, as models; and hence 
endeavour to assimilate themselves to them; whereas 
our fashionables have no models except those French 
stuffed figures in the windows of milliner’s shops. Why, 
if an artist should presume to make a statue with the 
shape that seems to be regarded with us as the perfection 
of harmonious proportion, he would be laughed out of 


94 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


the city. It is a standing objection against the taste of 
our women the world over, that they will practically 
assert that a French milliner understands how they 
should be made better than Nature herself. 

It is the manners of the Italians, which is the real 
cause of the preference given them by all travellers. 
This alone makes an immense difference between an 
Italian and an American city. Broadway, with all its 
array of beauty, never inclines one to be lively and 
merry. The ladies (the men are worse of course) seem 
to have come out for any other purpose than to enjoy 
themselves. Their whole demeanour is like one sitting 
for his portrait. Everything is just as it should be, to be 
looked at. Every lady wears a serious face, and the 
whole throng is like a stiff country party. The ladies 
here, on the contrary, go out to be merry, and it is one 
perpetual chatter and laugh on the public promenades. 
The movements are all different, and the very air seems 
gay. I never went down Broadway at the promenade 
hour alone with the blues, without coming back feeling 
bluer; while I never returned from a public promenade in 

}!& n W }$ 0XLt rubbin S hands, saying to myself. 

Well, this must be a very comfortable world, after all' 
for people do enjoy themselves in it amazingly.” This 
difference is still more perceptible on personal acquaint¬ 
ance. An Italian lady never sits and utters common¬ 
places with freezing formality. She is more flexible, 
and, indeed, if the truth must be said, better natured 
and happier than too many of my countrywomen. She 
is not on the keen look-out lest she should fail to frown 
every time propriety demands. 

There is no country in the world where woman is so 
worshipped, and allowed to have her own way as in 
America, and yet there is no country where she is so 
ungrateful for the place and power she occupies. Have 
you never in Broadway, when the omnibus was full, 
stepped out into the rain to let a lady take your place, 
which she most unhesitatingly did, and with an indiffer- 
ence m her manner as if she considered it the merest 
trifle in the world you had done P How cold and heart¬ 
less her thank ye,” if she gave one! Dickens makes 
the same remark with regard to stage-coaches—so does 
Hamilton. Now, do such a favour for an Italian lady, 
you would be rewarded with one of the sweetest 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


95 


smiles that ever brightened on a human countenance. I 
do not go on the principle that a man must always ex¬ 
pect a reward for his good deeds; yet, when I have had 
my kindest offices as a stranger, received as if I were 
almost suspected of making improper advances, I have 
felt there was little pleasure in being civil. The “ grazie. 
Signore ,” and smile with which an Italian rewards the 
commonest civility, would make the plainest woman 
appear handsome in the eyes of a foreigner. 

They also become more easily animated, till they make 
it all sunlight around them. They never tire you with 
the same monotonous aspect, but yield in tone and look 
to the passing thought, whether it be sad or mirthful; 
and then they are so free from all formality, and so 
sensitively careful of your feelings. I shall never forget 
one of the first acquaintances I made in Italy. I was at 

the Marquis of-’s one evening, conversing with some 

gentlemen, when the Marquis came up and said, “ Come, 
let me introduce you to a beautiful lady”—indeed she was 
the most beautiful Italian woman I had ever seen. I de¬ 
clined, saying I did not understand the Italian language 
well enough to converse with so brilliant a creature, 
“for you know (said I) one wants to say very clever 
things in such a case, and a blunder would be crucify¬ 
ing.” “ Poor, pooh,” said he, “ come along”—and 
taking me by the shoulders led me along, and forced me 
down into a chair by her side, saying, “ Now talk.” If 
she had been half as much disconcerted as I was, I 
should have blundered beyond redemption; but the good- 
natured laugh with which she regarded the Marquis’s 
performance entirely restored my confidence, and I 
stumbled along in the Italian for half an hour, without 
her ever giving the least intimation, by look or word, 
that I did not speak it with perfect propriety. 

This same naivete of manner extends itself everywhere. 
If you meet a beautiful peasant girl, and bow to her, in¬ 
stead of resenting it as an insult, she shows a most bril¬ 
liant set of teeth, and laughs in the most perfect good 
humour. As I was once coming down from Mount Ve¬ 
suvius, I passed an Italian lady with her husband, who 
by their attendants I took for persons of distinction. I 
had an immense stick in my hand, with which I had de¬ 
scended into the crater. As I rode slowly by, she turned 
to me in the pleasantest manner, and said, “ Ha un grand 



96 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


bastone , signore ” (you have got a large cane, sir). I 
certainly did not respect her less for her “ forward¬ 
ness! !” (civility), but on the contrary felt I would have 
gone any length to have served her. 

Indeed, this same freedom from the ridiculous frigidity, 
which in my country is thought an indispensable safe¬ 
guard to virtue, is found everywhere in Europe. It has 
given me, when a solitary stranger, many a happy hour 
on the Rhine, and on the Mediterranean. In my late 
passage from Civita Vecchia to Naples in a steamer, I 
met an instance of this, in the Russian baron and lady, 
and the pretty young Finlandess, his niece. I forgot to 
mention the manner in which our acquaintance com¬ 
menced. The old gentleman and his niece were sitting 
on deck enjoying the moonlight, and looking off on the 
shores of Italy and the islands, past which we were 
speeding like a spirit; while I was slowly pacing back¬ 
wards and forwards, thinking now of the sky I was under, 
and now of the far home on which a colder moonlight 
was sleeping, when the old baron pleasantly accosted me, 
and we slid off into an easy conversation. Soon after he 
went into the cabin a short time, when, passing by the 
Finlandess, she addressed me so pleasantly and lady-like, 
that I was perfectly charmed with her civility. Ah, said 
I to myself, a solitary stranger would have promenaded 
the deck of a vessel in my fatherland long before one of 
my beautiful countrywomen would have uttered a word 
to cheer him, and make him long after bless her in his 
heart. 

The Italian has another attraction peculiar to the beings 
of warm climes—she possesses deeper emotions than those 
of colder latitudes, while she has less power to conceal 
them. The dark eye flashes out its love or its hatred as 
soon as felt; and in its intense and passionate gaze is an 
eloquence that thrills deeper than any language. She is a 
being all passion, which gives poetry to her movements, 
looks, and words. It has made her land the land of song, 
and herself an object of interest the world over. A 
beautiful eye and eyebrow are more frequently met here 
than at home. The brow is peculiarly beautiful, not 
merely from its regularity, but singular flexibility. It 
will laugh of itself, and the slight arch always heralds 
and utters beforehand the piquant thing the tongue is 
about to utter; and then she laughs so sweetly! Your 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


97 


Italian knows how to laugh, and, by the way, she knows 
how to walk, which an American lady does not. An 
American walks better than an Englishwoman, who 
steps like a grenadier, but still she walks badly. Her 
movements lack grace, ease, and naturalness. 

Yet notwithstanding all this, beauty of face is more 
common at home than here. I will not speak of moral 
qualities, for here the “ dark-eyed beauty” of Italy must 
lose in comparison; and, indeed, with all her passionate 
nature, she is not capable of so lasting affection as an 
American. It is fiercer, wilder, but more changeable. 

Truly yours. 


XIX. 

Islands about Naples. Virgil’s Scenes, <Scc. 

Naples, April. 

Dear E.— I designed to have given one letter on the 
Islands around Naples, and another on the ruins that 
cover the ground that Virgil has made so classic. But 
really Virgil never was my admiration ; and his River 
Styx, and Acheron, and Sea of the Dead, and Avernus, 
and above all, his Elysian Fields, are such entire crea¬ 
tions of the imagination that I cannot with a sober face 
speak of them with the dignity that the scholar asks. 
So one letter must answer for the whole region. The 
truth is, Styx caunot be found, and Avernus is but a 
fish-pond, and the Elysian Fields a little bank that was 
once used for a Cemetery. Yet when I came to see 
these localities of Virgil’s JEueid, I had a greater respect 
for him than ever before. He had more imagination than 
I gave him credit for. It is not every one that could 
gather two worlds and the passage between them into so 
narrow and ordinary a place. The truth is, this region 
was the resort of the Emperors, and Philosophers, and 
Poets of Rome, in their leisure hours. On this beautiful 
shore they built villas and temples, and adorned every 
hill-top, and made every glen and pool mysterious by the 
Gt 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


08 

gods and nymphs they gathered around them. Virgil 
wrote for royal ears, and hence chose a spot that would 
flatter those whose favour he sought. 

Near by is the ancient Cumae, the Temple of Apollo, 
where Daedalus alighted in his winged flight from Crete; 
and, right below, the shore where JEneas drew up his 
ships, and the very cave to which he ascended to consult 
the Cumaean Sybil. Here Tarquinius Superbus found an 
asylum, and here, long after, Alaric piled his spoils. The 
whole shore and hill-side is covered with ruined temples 
dedicated to Venus, Apollo, Mercury, Diana, &c. Once 
this shore must have been a picture. Two things in¬ 
terested me more than all others, as they were not 
fictions of the imagination:—One was a view from the 
top of the Sybil’s Cave, of the Tomb of Scipio Africanus, 
standing “ solitary and alone ” on the far sea-shore. 
Thither in pride and scorn the old hero retired, and died 
and was buried. It is close on the beach, all alone, look¬ 
ing proudly desolate. The sea murmurs around it, and 
the night-tempest howls by—making the only dirge that 
is chaunted over the proud chieftain. The other was the 
harbour of Misenum. As I stood on the summit of the 
hill that overlooked the now ruined and desolate harbour, 
on which not even a fisher’s boat was moored, with here 
and there an arch just rising from the water, where an 
earthquake had tumbled it, it did not seem possible that 
there the Roman fleet was wont to ride in its glory. Yet 
it was anchored here, commanded by Pliny the elder, at 
the time of the eruption of Vesuvius that buried Pompeii. 
In this very harbour occurred a scene that well-nigh 
changed the destinies of the world. Right below me, 
on that quiet, unconscious sheet of water, now so lonely- 
looldng and desolate, sat once the galley of Sextus Pom- 
peius, and on board of it Octavius Caesar and Antony at 
dinner. Light as a sea-bird she sat on the wave, while 
'those master-spirits discussed together the fate of the 
World. During dinner, Pompey’s Admiral, formerly his 
slave, whom he had freed and honoured, came and 
whispered in his ear —“Shall I cut the cable and make 
you master of the World?" “Why did you not do so 
without asking me ?” answered Pompeius. “ My word 
is now given, and I must abide by it.” One good stroke 
of the knife then would have changed the fate of Rome 
and the World. On that single ropo hung immense 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


99 


destinies, and the fingers were already feeling the handle 
of the knife that should sever it. On a rope did I say ? 
On a lighter thing than that: on a man's word! Poor 
man! he would do a thousand lies to gain a trifling 
object, but yet would not utter one aloud in the ears of 
the World for an Empire. Ah ! methinks after all, that 
fear of human scorn had more to do with the holding of 
that rope than sense of obligation. To ordinary men 
princes may utter what falsehoods they please. Mere 
will is holier than obligation, and the bare questioning 
the right by others is bolder than their own violation of 
it. Pompeius could deceive, and rob, and slay the mass , 
by thousands; but deliberately to lie to great Caesar, 
and turn dark traitor at his own table, would be an act 
at which the World would cry out “ Shame.” 

“ Ah, this thou should’st have done, 

And not have spoke on’t! Jnme’tis villany ; 

In thee it had been good service. Thou must know, 

’Tis not my profit that does lead mine honour; 

Mine honour, it. Repent that e’er thy tongue 
Hath so betrayed thine act: Being done unknown, 

I should have found it afterwards well done; 

But must condemn it now.” 

This queer distinction in morals must have puzzled old 
Menas sadly, and we wonder he did not immediately add, 

Never mind, Pompey, I’ll never tell any one you knew 
anythiag about it; so here goes the rope.” And yet we 
do not exactly see how Pompey could have reconciled it 
with his delicate conscience to have killed his guests after 
he had got out to sea,even if the rope had been cut with¬ 
out his knowledge. 

The Sybil’s Cave is not so much of a sham. The extent 
of this grotto or cavern is unknown; but doubtless the 
whole mountain is bored through, and was used formerly 
as a means of communication between different portions 
of these ancient strongholds. From the side that looks 
directly on the sea, and near where iEneas landed, one 
eees but little of the immense cavern that dives into the 
mountain. Our guide, however, lighted his torches, and 
led us through long and dark passages until the ruins 
blocked the arches and stopped our progress. The 
entrance from the other side of the hill is on the shore of 
Virgil’s Tartarus. A beautifully shaded walk leads to it 


j > 


) 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


100 

which opens dark and gloomily in the mountain. Here 
our torches were again lighted, and we entered from the 
shores of the very same Tartarus where iEneas entered in 
his “ descensus facile ” into hell. You pass along a level 
gallery for some time illuminated only by the glare of 
your torches, and then reach an abrupt descent into a 
dark and narrow passage. My guide here put the torch 
into my hand and bade me mount. Holding it in one 
hand and grasping his neck with the other, I mounted his 
brawny shoulders, and the next moment found my feet 
dragging through the water. . My torch would light up 
here and there a projecting point of rock, and fling its red 
light on the black-smeared visage of the fellow that 
carried me, till I began to think I really was on the road 
to the lower world and had fairly straddled the Devil’s 
neck. We soon emerged into a room half-filled with 
water, which we went splashing through into another, on 
the farther side of which my grim carrier set me down on 
a flight of steps that rose from the water. I really began 
to suspect, as I stood and gazed off’into the darkness and 
saw the reflection of the light, now on the arched cavern, 
and now on the water, that Virgil was dealing somewhat 
in facts when he described this road to the Infernal 
World. Indeed, I should not have been surprised to have 
heard the bark of old Cerberus or the roar of the Cocytus. 

In another chamber decorated with Mosaics, are what 
are termed the Sybil’s Baths, and also little recesses in 
which the guide said she was accustomed to cool herself 
after her warm ablutions. Coming from a land of steam¬ 
boats and railroads, where everything is practical and 
real, it seemed odd enough to hear men run over these- 
traditions as matters of fact. Before you are aware, you 
find yourself following the narrator as if he w'ere relating 
real occurrences; and, as he points out the particular 
localities and relates some incident belonging to each, 
you for the moment believe him. Being all told in a 
foreign tongue, and that Italian, adds to the delusion: and 
I found myself looking into baths, where the beautiful 
limbs of the sybil reposed, and around on her chambers, 
as if it all were a fact and not a fiction. But when I was 
shown the narrow hole into which she crawled to cool 
herself after the bath, the beautiful vision vanished. This 
was too much for even my imagination; and 1 roused the 
echoes of the Sybil’s home by one of those long and hearty 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


101 


laughs that does the soul good. My cicerone had run on 
with increasing volubility, distancing Virgil miles out of 
sight, and adding such notes and comments on the way 
as would have staggered the poet to have heard. As he 
waved the torch to and fro, and splashed the water 
around him, he saw my eyes glaring on him like one com¬ 
pletely gulled—as I most assuredly was for the time, 
though not by him so much as by my own imagination— 
and taking the hint, he “piled up the marvels,” as a 
Western man would say, “ a little too high.” My hearty, 
incredulous laugh acted like a condenser on his steam, 
and he began to mistrust I was a sensible man. He 
stopped short, and asked if I did not wish to mount. 

An English lady had entered as far as one could with¬ 
out being carried, and, impelled by a woman’s curiosity, 
asked to be taken into the Sybil’s chambers. Without 
thinkmg how she was to be carried, she was just adjust¬ 
ing her dress, when the guide, stooping down, suddenly 
inserted her carefully astraddle of his neck, and plunged 
into the water. The squeal that followed would have 
frightened all the sybils of the mountains out of their grot¬ 
toes. It was too late, however, to retreat;—the passage 
was too narrow to turn round in, and she was compelled 
to enter the first chamber before she could be relieved 
from her predicament. When she came again into the 
open day light, a more astonished and pitiable-looking 
object I never beheld. Her elegant bonnet was blackened 
and crushed, and she stood fingering it with an absent 
look, uttering now and then an expression of horror at 
what she had passed through. 

This entire shore is a heap of ruins, and each ruin a 
history. 

Fagged out and weary as ever, we drove slowly home 
in the mild evening air. 

Truly yours. 


102 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


XX. 


A Visit to Salerno. Ruins of Pactum. 

Salerno, April, 1845. 

Dear E.—I have just returned from Psestum. My 
New York friends and myself made a party, and, se¬ 
lecting a beantifnl morning, started for the deserted city. 
Our road lay for many miles along the Bay, that spread 
away brightly in the morning sun, and through the 
towns that skirt the base of Vesuvius, and along the 
barren lava-tract near Pompeii, and finally opened into 
the cultivated plains,—when we trotted quietly off to¬ 
wards Salerno. Vineyards came up to the road as far 
as the eye could reach, interspersed with open cultivated 
grounds, in which the peasants, in their picturesque cos¬ 
tume, were gaily at work. The vines in this region are 
trained on tall poplars, and give the vineyards the appear¬ 
ance of a wood, and do not produce so fine an effect as 
those farther north. The fields being without fences have 
an open look, and the mingling of men and women toge¬ 
ther in their cultivation give them a chequered appear¬ 
ance, and render them very picturesque. In the middle 
of a large green wheat-field would be a group of men and 
women weeding the grain, the red petticoats and blue 
spencers of the latter contrasting beautifully with the co¬ 
lour of the fields. In one plat of ground I saw a team 
and a mode of ploughing quite unique , yet withal very 
simple. The earth was soft as if already broken up, and 
needed only a little mellowing. To effect this, a man had 
harnessed his wife to a plough, which she dragged to 
and fro with all the patience of an ox, he the mean time 
holding it behind, as if he had been accustomed to drive 
and she to go. This was literally “ ploughing with the 
heifer.” She, with a strap around her breast, leaning 
gently forward, and he, bowed over the plough behind, 
presented a most curious picture in the middle of a field. 
The plough here is a very simple instrument, having but 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


103 


one handle and no share, but in its place a pointed piece 
of wood, sometimes shod with iron, projecting forward 
like a spur, and merely passes through the ground like a 
sharp-pointed stick, without turning a smooth furrow like 
our own. 

As we approached the mountains the scenery changed 
and assumed a wilder and more varied aspect. We stop¬ 
ped at Nocera, a place founded it is supposed by the Pe- 
lasgi—once taken by the Saracens, and once bravely and 
successfully defended against Hannibal. Here is an old 
Cathedral, about which antiquarians have differed much ; 
and the only safe result finally reached is, that it is of great 
antiquity, and whether originally a church or not, was 
built when Nocera was a far richer and more important 
place. A small collection of houses is near it, from which 
swarmed children and young women to beg for a few 
grani. Though dirty and ragged, their features were 
much finer than those near Naples. You would have 
laughed to have seen me fairly blocked in by babies and 
urchins, and young women clamouring for money. Wish¬ 
ing to look in their houses to see how they lived, I scat¬ 
tered some small change among them, which immediately 
made them my warm friends; and the invitations I had 
to their dwellings, especially from those who had not yet 
received any money, were excessively warm and urgent. 
I walked into one house, from which I had seen no one 
come forth to beg. In the centre of the room was a cradle 
•with a sick infant in it, while the mother sat at the side 
of it at work. She was a fine-looking woman, and 
seemed quite superior to the herd that dogged my foot¬ 
steps. She looked up as I entered, and muttered some¬ 
thing of my impoliteness. I thought she was about half 
right; but stepping up to the cradle, I inquired after the 
child, and laid some money in its hand. Mercy! what a 
change! The sullen look with which she had greeted me 
passed away, and she addressed me with all the bland- 
ness of an Italian woman. But oh! what dwellings for 
human beings! I have been into the quarterings of slaves 
at the South, but they are comfortable apartments com¬ 
pared with these. A miserable bed and an old loom, with 
a few chickens and a pig, complete the entire furniture. 
I passed in and out followed by the same ragged gang, 
till all at once it occurred to me that these beggars were 
in general notorious thieves. I had, as I supposed, a 


104 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


note-book in my coat-pocket which closed like a pocket- 
book, and hence presented a strong temptation for a thief. 
I immediately put my hand behind me, and found it was 
gone. I was enraged at their ingratitude. There I had 
been talking good naturedly, and scattering money among 
the ragged, vermin-covered little thieves, and they had 
rewarded me with stealing my note-book. I mustered 
my best Italian, and abused them as a gang of ungrateful 
pickpockets. They looked quite astonished and innocent, 
and seemed willing and ardent to find the lost property. 
Knowing the frequent cases of robbery, it did not once 
occur to me that I might have left the thing behind ; and, 
conscious that as soon as they had opened it they would 
find it valueless, I offered a reward for its return. Men 
and women ran to and fro screaming to one another, and 
then returned to report progress, which was always “ non 
si trovaj ’ (not found). Our driver exerted himself most 
patiently, until I finally called him back and told him to 
drive on. As he mounted the box, he knocked up his cap 
on one side, and scratching his head with a most knowing 
look, said:—“ I will bet my head you have left it at home, 
for these people dare not steal.” There was no more to 
be said on the subject; and I confess that just that mo¬ 
ment I remembered I had taken it out of my pocket in 
the office of the hotel as we were starting off, to write a 
note to our Consul, and it was at least possible I had left 
it behind. The thought, I,acknowledge, did not please 
me much, and I would have given a little to know I had 
not wronged the beggars. 

I however soon forgot it all in the glorious scenery that 
surrounded us. \Voods, rocks, vineyards, streams, castles, 
convents and watch-towers, were scattered on every side. 
Now a sweet village lay nestling under a dark-browed 
hill; and now a ruined castle stood out in bold relief 
against the sky, perched on an almost inaccessible peak, 
around which, in the old lawless times, had been many a 
fierce struggle. Here we passed a solitary house peeping 
out from a mass of foliage in the side of the mountain, 
with a little rivulet brawling by it; and there saw the 
spire of a church shooting up behind a crag on the very 
summit of a high, bald mountain—placed in that eagle¬ 
like spot to be half-way between two little villages that 
lay scattered on either side below. The path to it wound 
and wound up and along the barren mass, until it finally 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


105 


dropped into the bosom of the church, whose bell, every 
Sabbath morning, woke the sleeping echoes around those 
villages to call their inhabitants to their mountain wor¬ 
ship. A little farther on, we passed nearly over a village, 
the spires of whose churches barely rose to our carriage- 
wheels. Over the ravine that led into the town was a 
slender foot-bridge, from the farther end of which a nar¬ 
row path commenced and went straggling up the hill, 
and finally dropping over the ridge, was lost from view. 
I inquired where it went, and was told to a little village 
perched on the farther side that looked down on the sea. 
A few more turns and the beautiful Bay of Salerno 
opened to view,—blue, quiet and mild as heaven. Its 
natural beauties are almost, if not quite, equal to those 
of Naples. We had hardly driven into the yard of our 
hotel before the usual retinue of beggars was behind us. 

In bargaining for our meals and rooms, everything was 
so reasonable that we could not complain ; and for once 
I did not attempt to beat down the landlord. The entire 
arrangement of the prices was always left to me in 
travelling, and I had acquired quite a reputation in 
bickering with the thieving Italian landlords and vet- 
turini. We made the man specify the dishes he would 
give us; and among other things he mentioned an 
English pudding. This required some discussion; but 
we finally concluded not to trust an Italian in Salerno 
with such a dish, and had its place supplied with some¬ 
thing else. He promised enough; and I was turning 
away quite satisfied, when my friends slily hinted at my 
principle, never to close a bargain with an Italian on his 
own terms. It wouldn’t do to lose my reputation; and 
so turning round, I very gravely said:—“ I suppose you 
will throw in the English pudding.” He as gravely and 
with blandness replied :—“ Oh, yes.” A peal of laughter 
closed the contract, and we strolled out to see the town. 
The mountains rise directly over it, on the cragged sum¬ 
mit of which stands an old fortress. Salerno is an old 
town, and once boasted one of the most celebrated 
Medical Schools of Italy. Its Cathedral also has some 
rich ornaments; but its great beauty is its bay. We re¬ 
turned to our hotel, and, sitting down on a balcony that 
overlooked it, drank in the fresh evening air, and feasted 
on the quiet beauty of the scene. The sun went down 
over Amalfi, pencilling with its last beams the distant 


106 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


mountains that curved into the sea beyond Psestum. 
Along the beach, on which the ripples were laying their 
lips with a gentle murmur, a group of soldiers in their 
gay uniform was strolling, waking the drowsy echoes of 
evening with their stirring bugle-notes. The music was 
sweet ; and at such an hour, in such a scene doubly so. 
They wandered carelessly along, now standing on the 
very edge of the sand where the ripples died, and now 
hidden from sight behind some projecting point where 
the sound confined, and thrown back, came faint and dis¬ 
tant on the ear, till emerging again into view, the martial 
strain swelled out in triumphant notes till the rocks 
above and around were alive with echoes. It was a 
dreamy hour; and just then, as if on purpose to glorify 
the whole, the full moon rose up over the sea and poured 
its flood of light over the waters, tipping every ripple 
with silver, and making the whole beach, where the 
water touched it, a chain of pearls. One by one my 
friends had dropped away to their rooms till I was left 
alone. I felt that “ night, most glorious night,” was 
not sent for slumber. Every vagrant sound had ceased* 
except the very faint murmur of the swell on the beach. 
The grey old mountains were looking down on Salerno* 
and Salerno on the sea; and all was quiet as night 
ever is when left alone. And yet, quiet and peaceful as 
it was, it had been the scene of stirring conflicts. Thera 
were the moonbeams sleeping on the wall against which 
Hannibal had once thundered with his fierce Africans; 
and along that beach the wild war-cry of the Saracen 
had rung, and women and children lain in slaughtered 
heaps. But the bold Saracen and bolder African had 
passed away, while the sea and the rocks remained the 
same. I turned to my couch, not wondering the poets 
of the Augustan age sang so much and so sweetly of 
Salerno. 

In the morning we rose with the sun and rattled off 
merrily for Paestum, still twenty miles distant. For a 
while we passed through cultivated fields, in which were 
groups of Calabrian peasants, dressed just as Salvator 
Eosa has painted them. At length we entered on the 
long and pestiferous swamps, in the midst of which 
Paestum stands, or rather stood. For miles and miles it 
was the same dead level, with nothing to relieve the eye 
but here and there a straw and mud hut, shaped like a 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


107 


tee-hive, in which the keepers live who watch the herds 
driven here to graze ; and the herds of buffaloes them¬ 
selves that roam over the plain. These buffaloes are 
wild-looking creatures, but tame as our farm-yard cattle. 
Each has its peculiar name, which it knows like a dog, 
and the overseer rides among them, calling to this and 
that, as a huntsman to his pack of hounds. We passed 
in sight of the Royal Chateau and Hunting-Grounds of 
Persano, which seemed the only fertile spot in sight. 

At length the ancient Temples became visible in the 
distance, and gradually brightened as we approached, 
till they stood clear and well-defined in all their naked 
grandeur and fine proportions against the summer-sky. 
There are but three of them, Ceres, Neptune, and the 
Basilica, as it is termed. I had imaged to myself 
crumbling walls, falling arches, and masses of ruins. 
But all such fragments had long ago been melted by time 
into the common mass of earth; and these three naked, 
perfect skeletons are left standing alone. The roofs are 
fallen in, and yet you scarcely notice it till you enter them. 
They are all in the form of parallelograms, composed en¬ 
tirely of columns with their entablatures. 

After wandering through them we went to a stream 
near by, whose petrifying qualities formed the stone from 
which the Temples were reared. It is called Travertine , 
and still lines the borders of the stream in immense 
quantities. The peasantry told me it still possessed this 
remarkable property, and that a cane left in it would in 
six months be converted into stone. We collected some 
curious specimens, and returned to the Temple of Nep¬ 
tune. Here, on the fragment of an old column, our ser¬ 
vant had spread our <c dejeuner;” and the mysterious 
Past was forgotten in the strong demands of a keen ap¬ 
petite. After I had finished I threw a chicken-bone and 
an orange-peel to Neptune, and without waiting for the 
oracle’s answer, prepared to depart. The clouds were 
fast gathering on the sky;—the wind was increasing, 
and here and there a drop of rain admonished us to hasten 
away. We reached here about dusk. The bells were 
gaily ringing, and the town was illumined, in honour of 
the birth of a Princess to the Queen of Naples. Lonely, 
exhausted, and weary, I think of you and home to-night, 
and the wide sea that rolls between us. But even you 


108 


TRAVELS IN ITALY, 


grow dim under the stronger claims of Somnus, and I 
throw down my pen to creep to my couch. 

Truly yours. 


XXI. 

Castrilamare. The Italian. A Storm at Naples, &c. 

Castellamare, April, 1843. 

Dear E. —“ Castellamare!”—it is quite a high-sound¬ 
ing name, and has doubtless once been an important 
stronghold, but it is now only a small town. It is inte¬ 
resting chiefly as the site of ancient Stabia, where once 
the torch of civil war, under Scylla, burned high and. 
hotly. It seems impossible, as one stands on those vine- 
covered grounds of a bright spring-day, and looks off on 
so quiet a scene, that war and havoc have once ploughed 
up the very rocks around. Yet it is true ; and what the 
passions of men have left, Vesuvius has taken for its 
prey. The storm of fire and ashes that buried Pompeii 
stooped also on this town, and gave it a burial-place here 
upon the rocks that overlook the sea. An old castle still 
stands on the edge of the water, which once must have 
been impregnable. There are some mineral springs in the 
place, and other things of trifling importance which we 
did not see. The main object of interest was the view 
from the heights, which we mounted without the aid of 
donkeys, although pressed upon us with surprising libe¬ 
rality by their owners. At iength, after toiling up a long 
ascent shaded by ilexes, and which Royalty never yet 
mounted on foot, we reached the Royal Villa, and passing 
it, went up, up, till we came to the “ Queen’s Place of 
Prospect.” It was a beautiful view; and made, thank 
Heaven, not for a Queen, but for Man —for every man 
who has a soul to enjoy it. To him they belong by a 
u peculiar right.” The sea lay below us, swept by a 
strong gale, against which, here and there, was a ship 
leaning to the blast, and beating anxiously into port.— 
Closer in stood two war-vessels, clothed from mast-head 


TBAVELS IN ITALY. 


10S* 

to deck, in flags, gaily flaunting out in honour of the 
birth of another Prince—while, farther off, the islands of 
Capri and Ischia looked quiet and blue as ever in their 
sea home. 

Naples, ten or fifteen miles distant, bent beautiful as 
ever around the Bay—while off on the right, in solemn 
grandeur, towered away Vesuvius, lifting its solemn in¬ 
vocation to Heaven, with the lonely ruins of Pompeii 
sleeping humbly at its feet. Oh! how mournful they 
looked in that smoky atmosphere, as if scarcely daring to 
lift their heads in sight of their old and triumphant foe. 
Vesuvius seems omnipresent to the traveller around 
Naples ; he cannot turn a point, or ascend an eminence,, 
or look back on his path, without beholding that bold, 
bleak mountain looking moodily down upon him. It 
seems to stand so conspicuously, as if on purpose to re¬ 
mind the gay Neapolitans that danger is ever near. 

Our guide was a talkative fellow, and seemed not in 
the least afraid to express his opinions. Indeed, he was 
a thorough-going Democrat, and, if he had the privilege 
of voting, would most certainly cast his ballot against 
Kings. I have always endeavoured to get at the real 
feelings in the lower classes of Italy. Nobles and the 
like are very close-mouthed, knowing their words are 
watched and borne to other ears. When they speak on 
Governments, they speak as if in the audience-chamber of 
the King; but the Poor, whose words weigh nothing, are 
allowed to talk as they please; fora few bullets will 
quickly stop their prating, when it begins to generate ac¬ 
tion. Hence, I have ever found them quite free, and 
usually very'- republican in their thoughts. I inquired of 
our guide how many palaces the king had. “ Five,” he 
replied. “ How long does he live in this one during the 
year?” “ A month, perhaps.”—“Ah!” said I, “the king 
has five palaces, then. It must cost something to keep 
them all in order.”—“ Ah , e vero ” (true enough), he re¬ 
joined, with that peculiar shrug which an Italian knows 
how to give. “ Would it not be better to have less—say 
one or two—and give the avails of the rest to those poor 
wretches I see starving around me ?” “ Yes, indeed, but 
it won’t be.” He seemed quite brief in his replies till I 
changed my tone; and, pointing to the glorious valley 
which spread inland from the sea, dotted with vineyards, 
said :—“After all, I don’t know but it is as well. Those 


110 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


people must be very comfortable yonder in the valley. I 
doubt not they have enough to eat.” “ No, no, Signore,” 
he quickly replied, “ they do not have enough to eat.— 
The heavy duties take away all they earn. There is much 
misery there,” said he, looking off on the lovely plain and 
shaking his head. “Well, but,” I asked, “why do you 
have Kings if they burden you so heavily P” “ Ah ! what 
will one do ? if we utter too many complaints we are 
thrown into prison; and what do we gain ?” He seemed 
to take fire at once; and, hurrying on with all the impe¬ 
tuosity of an Italian, uttered a fearful tirade against the 
Government, and ended by saving:—“We want another 
Massaniello to lead us. But the time will coine—let us 
wait—the time will come when we will do thus to 
Kings,” [drawing, as he spoke, a piece of board he held 
in his hand across his throat, with a gesture no one could 
mistake]. His eye fairly flashed as he said this ; but the 
next moment it had all vanished; and, Neapolitan like, 
he uttered some careless joke. I sometimes think it is 
well these people are not serious or lasting in their feel¬ 
ings. Let a volcano rise up and bury two or three cities 
in any part of England every few years, and the country 
around it would be as desolate and uninhabited as the 
African Desert. But here they build on the lava before it 
looks fairly cold, A Neapolitan never thinks long on one 
thing ; yet there is not a beggar in the street or a fisher¬ 
man on the Bay that does not know the history of 
Massaniello. He is the People’s Washington. 


Nafles. 

To-night we arrived from Castellamare. Our road 
wound along the Bay—near Pompeii, through Torre del 
Greco, into the city. The sky was darkly overcast—the 
wind was high and angry, and the usually quiet Bay 
threw its aroused and rapid swell on the beach. Along 
the horizon, between the sea and sky, hung a storm- 
cloud blacker than the water. Here and there was a 
small sailing-craft, or fisherman’s boat, pulling for the 
shore, while those on the beach were dragging their 
boats still farther up on the sand, in preparation for the 
rapidly-gathering storm. There is always something 
fearful in this bustling preparation for a tempest. It 
was peculiarly so here. The roar of the surge was on 
one side; on the other lay a buried city—a smoking 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


Ill 


mountain; while our very road was walled with lava 
that cooled on the spot where it stood. The column of 
smoke that Vesuvius usually sent so calmly into the sky, 
now lay on a level with the summit, and rolled rapidly 
inland, before the tierce sea-blast. It might have been 
fancy; but, amid such elements of strength, and such 
memories and monuments of their fury, it did seem as if 
it wanted but a single touch to send valley, towns, 
mountain and all, like a fired magazine into the air. 
Clouds of dust rolled over us, blotting out even the road 
from our view; while the dull report of cannon from 
Naples, coming at intervals on our ears, added to the 
confusion and loneliness of the scene. As we entered 
the city and rode along the port, the wild tossing of the 
tall masts as the heavy hulls rocked on the waves, the 
creaking of the timbers, and the muffled shouts of sea¬ 
men, as they threw their fastenings, added to the gloom 
of the evening; and I went to my room, feeling that I 
3hould not be surprised to find myself aroused at any 
moment by the rocking of an earthquake under me. The 
night did not disappoint the day, and set in with a 
wildness and fury, that these fire-countries alone exhibit. 
My room overlooked the Bay and Vesuvius. The door 
opened upon a large balcony. As I stood on this, and 
heard the groaning of the vessels below, reeling in the 
darkness, and the sullen sound of the surge, as it fell on 
the beach, while the heavy thunder rolled over the sea, 
and shook the city on its foundations,—I felt I would 
not live in Naples. Ever and anon a vivid flash of light¬ 
ning would throw distant Vesuvius in bold relief against 
the sky, with his forehead completely wrapped in clouds 
that moved not to the blast, but clung there, as if in 
solemn consultation with the mountain upon the night. 
Overhead the clouds were driven in every direction, and 
nature seemed bestirring herself for some wild work. 
At length the heavy rain-drops began to fall, one by one, 
as if pressed from the clouds; and I turned to my room, 
feeling that the storm would weep itself away. 

Truly yours. 


112 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


XXII. 

Capua. A priest. Cenotaph of Cicero. A Proud Peasant Girl. Sunset 

on the Sea. 


Albano, April. 

Dear E.—Bright and early on Wednesday morning 
our driver cracked his whip through the streets of Naples, 
and we rattled off for old Rome. Do not understand by 
this, that there was anything like locomotive speed in our 
movement, for nothing would be farther from the truth. 
We had, however, four horses attached to our carriage, 
and the road was good enough to tempt a rapid drive, if 
the thing had been possible. We entered on a flat coun¬ 
try covered with vineyards, and crossed with hedges, 
and came at noon to Capua, where we breakfasted. The 
dirty town is strongly garrisoned, and filled with soldiers 
and priests. An old Capuchin friar came into the yard 
of the inn soon after we arrived , rattling his wooden box, 
and asking in a whining tone for charity. He had a 
most amiable face, and its benevolent expression quite 
charmed me. He seemed to be aware of the impression 
he made upon me, for with his cowl thrown back from 
his shaven crown, and his cross and rosary dangling at 
his rope girdle, he approached me in a most insinuating 
manner, asking for alms, and promising to pray for me as 
long as he lived. I thought I would test his creed for 
once; and so pulling out a handful of small change, I 
rattled it before his greedy eyes and said,—“ You say 
then you will pray for me, if I will give you money ?” 
“Si, signore!” “ But a priest—your superior in rank, 
has told me, there is no chance for a heretic; that he did 
not even stop in purgatory, but went straight past into 
the lowest depths of perdition. Now you say you will 
pray for me; but if I am damned at the outset, your 
prayers will be of no use.” “ Oh,” said he, “ I will pray 
that you may become a good Catholic.” “ I am much 
obliged to you,” I replied, “ but I wish no such prayers 
for me, with or without money, I am a confirmed heretic. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


113 


and desire to remain so ; so good morning.” With this 
I put my money into my pocket. He saw it disappear 
like a treasure going into the deep, and wriggled and 
leered, till his simple face expressed more shrewdness 
than I thought it capable of doing. “Oh,” said he, “ I 
will pray for your body , that it may be kept well.” 
“No,” replied I; “the doctors will take care of that; 
besides, the soul is of more importance than the body, 
and if you cannot say there is a chance for me as a here¬ 
tic, and that you will pray for me as such, there’s no use 
of talking farther.” The covetous fellow was concerned, 
and he had sense enough to see it. He found there was 
no dodging the point, and finally, with a desperate effort, 
declared he would pray for my salvation as a heretic. I 
held the money over his box and said, “ Now there is no 
mistake about this, and no deception ?” “ No, signore.” 
“ Then there is a hope for me ?” “ Si, signore /” I drop¬ 
ped the money in his box, and we then entered on a long 
conversation about his religion. He said he fasted and 
scourged himself frequently; and that lately, in one of 
his self-macerations, the evangelist Matthew had ap¬ 
peared to him in the form of a baby, and that he expected 
another visit soon. At length, getting weary of his non¬ 
sense, I bid him good morning ; and he shuffled away, 
wishing all the blessings of two worlds on my head. 

Towards evening we approached a range of hills, and 
a shower that had passed over that part of the country, 
had clothed everything in a brighter green, while the 
fresh air from the heights around, visited my fevered sys¬ 
tem, as if on an angel’s mission of love. I got out of the 
carriage, and strolled along, drinking in health with every 
breath. I fairly shouted in the new life that had sud¬ 
denly opened around me. Convents perched on the side 
of the green hills, and villages reclining along distant 
slopes, glittered in the yellow sunlight, while not a sound 
disturbed the deep quietness of the scene, save the vesper 
hymn of the bird, or the sweet chime of far off bells. It 
was an hour of enchantment. At length, as we made a 
bend in the road, Vesuvius burst on our view, blue and 
dim in the distance, and sending up its everlasting column 
of smoke in the evening air. It looked lonely and sad at 
that distance, as if almost regretting its own destiny , and 
weary of its diabolic work. It was with no ordinary 
H 


TRAVELS in ITALY. 


114 

feeling I bade it farewell. Those great—and if I maj 
use the term —active features in scenery, always fasten 

themselves on my affections. . 

At night we stopped at a most primitive inn; it was 
built around a court, with the stables under a part of the 
chambers, adorned with bulrush carpets, and window 
curtains, &c., of the same material. The next day we 
breakfasted at Mold. Not to trouble you with the details 
of the ruins here, and skipping over also the ingratitude 
of a garrulous old woman, who conducted me round to 
see the different objects of interest, I mention only the 
Cenotaph of Cicero, standing near by, erected on the 
spot where he was murdered. He had a villa here, to 
which he had retired from the storm of persecution that 
was darkening over his head. “ There is a tide in the 
affairs of men,” and he knew that the ebb of his own had 
come. At length he heard that messengers were on the 
way to slay him. Though lying sick and almost help¬ 
less, his friends placed him in a litter, and started for the 
sea, for the purpose of embarking for some distant port. 
He had reached this spot when the murderers met him. 
The old orator saw that his hour had come, and prepared 
himself for the blow. It is said, he met his fate with 
the composure that became him. His cenotaph consists 
of three stories, but it is now in ruins. Clambering up 
its rough and ruined sides, I came very near breaking my 
neck, and thus making it stand for Cicero and me toge¬ 
ther. However consoling such an event might have 
been to my future fame, I was not particularly desirous 
for such an immediate association of our names. 

I was pleased with an illustration of pride in a poor 
peasant girl that I passed soon after. We overtook 
three women, two of whom immediately began to beg. 
The third, a dark-eyed, handsome young creature, carry¬ 
ing a load on the top of her head, moved on with a 
stately step without deigning us a look. I asked the old 
women what was her name. They replied, “ Elizabetta.” 
—So I called 7 out “ Elizabetta! Elizabetta t” The old 
women laughed, but she never turned her head or gave 
any sign of recognition. I saw the blood mantle in her 
dark brown cheek and her eye flash, and I half re¬ 
gretted my actions, and threw the money to the old 
women; they picked it up with a cry of joy, and I 
could see that Elizabetta, as she turned a moment, and 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


115 


saw the amount, was half sorry she had lost it. So I 
called out again, and she turned round, but immediately 
wheeled back and walked on prouder than before— a 
perfect Dido in her bearing. It was amusing to ob¬ 
serve the struggle between her pride and her need. 
She saw she had lost more than she could gain by an 
entire day’s work, yet she was too proud to receive it as 
a beggar. 

Towards evening we came towards Fondi, the spot 
where Horace had such a hearty laugh over the pom¬ 
posity of the Praetor. The road from thence to Terracina 
is anything but pleasant. We entered the town by the 
famous pass in which Hannibal received his first check 
from Fabius. It seems strange that so good a general as 
Hannibal should have attempted to force such a pass, 
against the great odds that were against him. 

Terracina is a dirty hole—the women blackguards, 
and the landlord a rascal. So much for the town that 
introduced us into the dominions of his holiness. The 
passage of the twenty miles of Pontine marshes next 
morning was gloomy enough—the road goes in a straight 
line as far as you can see ; the only terra firma in sight, 
and wherever the swamp showed a crust thick enough 
to bear, or mud dense enough to sustain an animal by 
sinking to its middle, there were buffaloes, half wild, 
and horses, browsing on the stunted herbage. That 
twenty miles was the gloomiest ride I ever took—it 
seemed like passing through the very valley of death. I 
wonder Virgil did not fix his Avernus here, no one 
would then have doubted his veracity. Towards even¬ 
ing we began to ascend the hill to Velletri. For miles 
and miles we crawled up the ascent—through the town 
itself, (where our driver wished to stay over night, but I 
would not let him,) and up the mountain, which looked 
back on the drear region stretching away to the Pontine 
marshes. We reached a high elevation just as the sun 
was going down, and a more glorious sunset I never be¬ 
held. Far, far below us and away, slept the Mediter¬ 
ranean, bluer than the heavens over it, while the flaming 
fire-ball hung only a few feet from its surface. Under¬ 
neath it, the waters piled up like a hillock of gold, while 
the heavens beyond seemed like the very portals to the 
world of glory. I gazed and gazed till the glorious orb 
disappeared, and then thought of home and friends. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


116 

The night at length enfolded us, and the stars came out 
one after another, while far away on the horizon, spread 
dim and white the tail of the unannounced comet, that is 
rushing through our system. Amid the deep defiles we 
went floundering on in the dark, our driver, now and then 
throwing in between his curses—Ain t this a pretty road 
to ride over in the night ?” At length we came smack up 
against a team that was standing still in the darkness, 
and amid howling, and screaming, and cursing, that were 
enough to deafen one, I went forward on foot and alone. 
I walked at least ten or twelve miles, and I hailed the 
lights of Albano, as if they had been those of my home. 
I went to bed thoroughly exhausted, and have been wan¬ 
dering this morning over this classic hill, but will not 
weary you with a description. 

Yours truly. 


XXIII. 


The ff Eternal City.” St. Peter’s Church. 

Rome, April, 1843. 

I date from the Eternal City. Yesterday we 
descended the Albano along the Appian way, with a scene 
before us, if not the most magnificent, at least the richest 
in association, of any in the world. Just as we were 
leaving the village, we passed the tomb of Pompey the 
Great, a huge, gray structure, rising in a single square 
tower of gray stone, erected by Cornelia over his ashes. 
He sleeps well with his ivy-coloured monument looking 
down on the Rome that was almost his. Adown the en¬ 
tire descent the whole desolate campagna of Rome (as 
far as Socrate) was in view. Amid its ruins, with its 
towers and domes and obelisks, arose the modern city, a 
living tomb-stone over the ancient one long dead. Be¬ 
tween us and it, like long broken colonnades, stretched 
the miles of her ancient aqueducts.—Beyond, in the 
smoky distance, the blue Mediterranean drew its pencil 
along the sky, making a single line on the horizon, while 



TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


117 

around all, like guardian spirits, seemed to lean in mourn¬ 
ful attitude, the ancient, silent Centuries. The grandeur 
and the loneliness of the wide scene weighed on my heart. 
Rome, the brightest vision of my early dreams, and the 
Mecca of all my my boyish imaginations, was before me, 
and yet how different from those dreams! A person at 
home cannot appreciate the feelings of one who for the 
first time looks down on imperial Rome. The impressions 
which the imagination, from earliest childhood, has 
graven on the soul, and the aspect presented to the actual 
eye, are so widely different, that one seems struggling be¬ 
tween waking and sleeping—he cannot wholly shake off 
the early dream, and he cannot believe that what rises 
before him is all that about which he has dreamed so long. 
But the very desolateness of the campagna around Rome 
which every traveller so deeply regrets is, after all, a 
great relief to one’s feelings. It harmonizes more with 
their mood and speaks their language. Bright fields and 
thrifty farm-houses and all the life and animation of a 
richly cultivated country would present too strong a 
contrast to the fallen “ glory of the world.” But the 
sterile earth, the ruins that lie strewed over the plain and 
the lonely aspect all things around it wear, seem to side 
with the pilgrim as he muses over the crumbled empire. 
Besides, his faith is not so grievously taxed and his con¬ 
victions so incessantly shocked. He is not compelled to 
dig through modern improvements to read the Hues that 
move him so deeply. There they are, the very characters 
the centuries have writ. He sees the foot-prints of the 
mighty ages, and lays his hand on their mouldering gar¬ 
ments. As we passed over this mournful tract, every 
stone that lay in the sunshine seemed a history. We 
were on the Appian way, over which the Roman Legions 
had thundered so often, and in the very plain where the 
Sabines—the Volsci—the Pelasgi had in their turn striven 
to crush the infant empire. 

At length we entered the gates, rolled over the Celian 
hill and descended into the heart of modern Rome. 

The sensations one experiences in passing through the 
streets are odd enough. His feet are on a dead empire, 
and here an ancient obelisk and there a fountain or a ruin 
keeps up the mystery and awe with which he first con¬ 
templated the city. But suddenly an object passes be-^ 
tween him and that ruin—he looks, and it is a modern 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


US 

belle—a Roman, with her French hat, finery and bustle, 
rustling by. He rubs his eyes and looks again. It can¬ 
not be: for upon that proud marble front stands written 
in haughty characters, S.P.Q.R., “ Senate and People 
of Rome.” He turns; the black-eyed Roman has tripped 
by, but right among those grim, old columns is a black¬ 
smith quietly shoeing a Roman’s horse. Thus you go on, 
one moment reminded of Caesar—the next of tobacco— 
one moment imagining the haughty form that once passed 
beneath the arch—the next seeing a begger crouched in 
his rags beneath it. 

After I had become domiciled, the first object I sought 
was St. Peter’s. Everybody has written of St. Peter’s 
and everybody says that the first view disappointed them 
—that the admirable proportion maintained throughout 
diminished the greatness of the whole. It was not so 
with me. Although in general every thing is under my 
anticipations, this was beyond them. 

As I stood in front of the noble area with the ancient 
obelisk rising in the centre, and the snow-white fountains 
sending up their foam against the fourfold colonnade that 
swept down in a semicircle on either side to where I 
stood, surmounted by their one hundred and ninety-two 
statues, and looked up to the front of St. Peter’s rising 
majestically from its noble flight of steps, I lifted up my 
hands in amazement. 

My astonishment was only increased as I ascended into 
the vestibule and entered the main body of the church. 
The rich marble floor—the lofty nave—the stupendous 
columns, and the wealth of statuary that leans out on 
every side, make it appear more like an artist’s dream than 
an actual creation. 

You are lost in the amplitude around you, and the men 
and women that creep over the floor are mere insects 
amid the gigantic objects that stand on every side. At 
length, as you approach the immense bronze canopy and 
gaze up into that solemn dome, circling away into the 
heavens, you exclaim, “It is enough!” It seems as if 
Art had fallen in love with her own creation, and in the 
enthusiasm of her passion had thrown away all her 
wealth upon it. 


Truly yours. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


119 


XXIV. 

Saturday before Easter and Easter Sunday. 

Rome, April, 1843. 

Dear E.— I will skip over the ceremonies of Holy 
week, and give you simply a brief sketch of Saturday 
before Easter Sunday, and Easter Sunday itself. 

Saturday before Easter I gave up St. Peter’s, as nearly 
the same thing was to be done over again, and went in 
the morning to St. John’s, in Laterano, (as it is called,) 
one of the oldest and most magnificent churches of Rome. 
From its greater contiguity, it claims precedence of St. 
Peter’s, and the feeling between the rival churches, is not 
of the most brotherly kind. St. John’s being the mother 
church, ought to be the residence of the Pope; but the 
conveniences and splendour of St. Peter’s, correspond 
better with the tastes of his Holiness, and he you know 
is not a responsible being. The consequence is, that as 
soon as a pope dies, the College of Cardinals at St. John 
immediately assert their supremacy, by issuing new coin. 

But we will leave them to their quarrels for to-day. 
This morning is always devoted to the ordination of 
priests and the baptism of converts—such as Jews, 
Greeks, &c. Having heard that several Jews and Greeks 
were to be baptized, I went early to witness the cere¬ 
mony. I was surprised to find the church so little 
crowded ; and after listening a short time to the chaunt- 
ing of the priest, I began to roam over the church. Still 
few people came, and 1 began to suspect there was 
something wrong; so seeing a priest come out from a 
side chapel with a book under his arm, I accosted him. 
He told me that the ceremony was in the Baptistry, 
which is a separate building, erected by Constantine, and 
repaired by two popes. I immediately hastened to it, 
and descending to the interior, saw the entire circle 
around the font, literally blocked with human beings 
who were patiently waiting the commencement of the 
imposing ceremony. Putting my foot on the plinth of 


120 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


one of the magnificent porphyry columns that support 
the dome above the font, and throwing one arm around 
it, I was enabled to get a bird’s-eye view of the whole. 
—After waiting a half hour or more, the bishops with 
the priestly procession entered. All were standing silent 
and intent, waiting the appearance of the Jews and 
Turks, &c., who were thus publicly to abjure their faith. 
The water in the font was blessed, and oil poured on it 
in the shape of a cross, and chauntings uttered, but still 
no Turks appeared. At length a woman brought for¬ 
ward an infant, that seemed about three days old, and it 
was baptized. A second, that seemed its counterpart, 
was also brought to the bishop and baptized. Still the 
crowd stood in breathless expectation for the commence¬ 
ment of the interesting ceremony that was to crown the 
whole ; but, alas! the whole was finished, and the bishop 
with his train wheeled away. I never beheld such blank 
looks of astonishment as for a few moments surrounded 
that font.—Every face expressed in the most emphatic 
language, “ is this all—can it be ally And then one 
would turn to another with such a look of earnest in¬ 
quiry, as much as to say, “ ivhat do you think.” Those 
who had mounted benches and chairs, to overlook the 
throng, stepped down with such a softly step and shamed 
look, as if afraid to be noticed, and one after another 
began to slink away so quietly, and the whole pageant 
had ended in such a ridiculous farce, that I involuntarily 
burst into a laugh. Yet it was not on account of the 
ceremony , but the people .—Many a one had risen before 
her time of waking, and many a hurried breakfast, taken, 
and many a scudi expended in carriages, and St. Peter’s 
given up with reluctance to witness the baptism of two 
very small infants . 

My friend and myself, after loitering around a while, 
and again seeing the poor creatures mounting “Scala 
Santa,” on their knees, turned to walk home. St. John’s, 
standing close by the gate that leads to Naples, it is a 
long walk from it to the centre of the city. We at first 
repented of our choice, for the sun was beating on our 
heads with terrific force; but we were soon amply re¬ 
paid ; for this being the day whose evening saw the Son 
of God rise from the dead—it is filled with joyful celebra¬ 
tions. Yesterday, the Tenebrm and Miserere had been 
sung over the death and burial of the Saviour j but to- 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


121 


day, there was no mourning. The Miserere was over, 
and the Jubilate commenced. About midday, as we 
stood on the Quirinal, suddenly every bell of the city 
seemed unloosed in its tower, and swung, and shouted 
out its hallelujah. You cannot conceive the exciting 
effect of so many bells ringing at once in their gladdest 
notes.—The city seemed fairly to lift under it; and sud- 
denly from the far castle of St. Angelo, thundered forth 
the deep cannon, blending their sullen joy with the emu¬ 
lative bells, till the Sabine hills sent back the jubilee, and 
the sound came rolling down over the Quirinal, saying in 
wild, yet stirring accents, “ Christ the Lord is risen to¬ 
day.” As we walked along, from every corner guns 
were fired till the city shook again. However inappro¬ 
priate the kind of joy, one could not feel indifferent to it. 
But after it had subsided away, and the city lapsed 
again into its usual quietness, it did seem strange enough. 
In viewing the pageantries and senseless ceremonies in 
honour of St. Peter, I have often wondered what the 
great Apostle would have said, had he foreseen it all; so 
now 1 felt that our Saviour must have turned with pity 
and disgust from such a celebration of his resurrection. 
In St. Peter's on this day, the principal ceremonies are 
“ blessing of the fire and incense”—the new light , (quite 
different, however, from our new lights at home,) and 
the blessing of the paschal candle, which is large as a 
small column. 

j Easter Sunday. This is the last great day of the 
Popish feast; and the Pope celebrates high mass in St. 
Peter’s. This is done but three times in the year—thi3 
day—the festival of St. Peter and Paul—and Christmas. 
To-day also the pope wears the Tiara or triple crown. IS 
was first worn by Pope Sylvester, with a single coronet; 
Boniface Eighth, about the year 1300, added a second, and 
John the Second, or Urban Fifth—it is not certain which, 
added a third, making it a triple crown, representing tha 
pontifical, imperial, and royal authority combined. 

At an early hour the streets were thronged with car¬ 
riages, and Rome turned out of doors, poured itself to¬ 
wards St. Peter’s. It is a mile or more from the main 
part of the city to the church; and the principal street 
leading to it, presented two unbroken lines of carriages, 
one going and the other returning. If for a moment, you 
got a view of the street for some distance, it appeared 


122 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


like two currents of water, one bearing the multitude on, 
and the other returning without them. At length, the 
cardinals began to arrive. Carriage after carriage, to the 
number of forty or fifty, came clattering along with black 
horses, and crimson plumes, and gilded trappings, re¬ 
sembling anything but a cortege of priests.—Each had its 
three gaily attired footmen ; and some seemed half covered 
with gold, even to the hubs of the wheels, which glittered 
with the precious metal. One after another, they dashed 
into the semicircular colonnade that goes up to the main 
church, and rolled up through its columns, more like the 
grandees of court, (as they indeed are,) than humble 
worshippers crowding to the sanctuary of God. As the 
Pope entered the church, the entire chapter received him, 
and his procession; and the choir struck up, “ Tu es Petrus 
et super hanc petra/m ceclijicabo ecclesiam meam ,” SfC. 
Along the whole immense nave were ranged in opposing 
files, leaving the middle pavement empty, the grenadiers, 
national troops and capitoline guards.—Between these in 
his chair borne upon men’s shoulders and covered with a 
canopy, passed the Pope, the Peacock feathers nodding 
behind him. The soldiers received him kneeling, and as 
the choir paused in their “ Tu es Petrus ,” &c., the 
military stationed in the gallery at the end of the church, 
midway to the roof, filled their trumpets, and the great 
bell of the Cathedral rung out its acclamations to the two 
hundred and fifty-seventh-successor” of the great Apostle. 
I noticed the holy father kept his eyes shut as usual, 
while he was borne along in state; but I did not feel 
much respect for his devotional aspect, for I had been told 
by an Italian that the old man was compelled to close 
his eyes, as the motion of the chair made him sea-sick, 
Alas, that greatness must have the same stomach as 
ordinary men. 

I will not weary you with a detailed description of the 
mass and communion, and other ceremonies of the day; 
for it would simply be saying that his Holiness knelt on 
a crimson and gold cushion—that now he laid aside, or 
rather had laid aside, his tiara, and put on his mitre, and 
now vice versa—that there were benedictions, and genu¬ 
flections, and chauntings, and incensings, and nonsensings 
of every sort. I loitered it out till the time of giving 
the bendiction, when I pressed through the crowd and 
threaded my way to the top of one of the colonnades, to 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


123 

witness the imposing ceremony. To imagine it well, 
you must place before you a magnificent church, with 
the paved ground gently sloping up to the flight of steps 
that lead into it. From each corner imagine an open 
colonnade running down in a semicircular form, enclos¬ 
ing a vast area, and you have the front of St. Peter’s. 
The centre of the area was kept clear by the military, 
ranged round it in the form of a hollow square. Be¬ 
tween the upper file of soldiers and the church steps, 
stood the living mass that waited the benediction. Be¬ 
hind the lower file were crowded the countless carriages. 
The open colonnades, and the top of one of them, are 
given to strangers. In the front of the church, over the 
main entrance, there is a gallery, covered with crimson 
cloth and shaded by an immense piece of canvass. Into 
this gallery the Pope advances, and blesses the people. 

Standing on the top of a colonnade, leaning against the 
base of a statue, I had a complete view of the whole. It 
was a grand spectacle, and I contemplated it with mingled 
feelings. The Pope had not yet made his appearance— 
and indeed I almost forgot him. It was both a pageant 
and a farce, combining all the magnificence that dazzles 
the crowd, and all the folly that “ makes the angels 
weep{” 

Nearly under me were a group of pilgrims, ragged and 
dirty, lying along the steps, unconscious of all around— 
their staves leaning across them, their head on their hand, 
and they either nodding or fast asleep. One boy held my 
attention for a long time. He lay on the hard stone, in 
deep slumber, with his father asleep beside him. Sudden¬ 
ly there was the blast of a trumpet, and the father started 
from his repose, and, supposing the Pope was about to 
appear, roused up his boy, so that they might not lose the 
invaluable blessing. The tired, ragged little fellow rose 
half up, and then fell back again heavily on the steps, 
sound asleep. The Pope did not appear, and the father, 
too, was soon in deep slumber beside his boy. What 
were their dreams, in the midst of this pomp and splen¬ 
dour? They had wandered far from their quiet home, 
to receive the blessing of the Holy Father. Backless of 
the magnificence around them—of the crowd—the ocean- 
like murmur that went up to heaven—they had fallen 
asleep under the shadow of St. Peter’s. That boy, ragged 
and dirty as he was, had also his dreams, and his palace 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


124 : 

and objects of ambition; but they were all far away, and 
many a weary mile must be traversed before he would be 
amid them again. What a change, to be waked from that 
quiet dream by the sound of trumpets, and instead of his 
own rude hut by the mountain stream, to find the lofty 
cathedral before him, and the rumour of thousands around 
him! 

At length the Pope appeared—engaged in a short pray¬ 
er —stretched out his hands over the multitude that sunk 
to the earth,—and pronounced the benediction. The long 
lines of soldiers kneeled in their ranks, and all was silent 
as the grave. But the last word was scarcely spoken, 
before they were on their feet—drum and trumpet pealed 
out their joy—the cannon of St. Angelo answered them, 
and the bells threw in their clang to swell the jubilee— 
the multitude began to sway and toss and disperse—and 
all was over. The people had been blessed, but their 
condition had not been bettered ; and I thought of what 
a vetturino whom I once engaged said to me—“ The peo¬ 
ple,” said he, “ are taxed so that they cannot live, and all 
the country is filled with misery and poverty, and all the 
return they get from the Pope is his benediction once a 
year. Ah,” he added, with a scorn it was well his Holi¬ 
ness did not see, “ non e un benedizione e unmaledizione 
“it is not a benediction, but a malediction.” 

There could not have been less, I think, than forty 
thousand people assembled. After all the ceremony is 
over, you can walk, if you will, through St. Peter’s and 
view its magnificence. On one side is arranged a row of 
temporary confessionals, with a placard over each, in 
every language in the civilized world. There the Arab, 
Kussian, German, Greek, Swede, Spaniard and English¬ 
man, can confess his sins in his own tongue, and receive 
absolution. Poor wretches are kneeling before them, 
pouring the tale of their sorrows and sins into the ears of 
the yawning confessor, who dismisses them, one after 
another, with lightened consciences, though not with 
purer hearts. At sun-down, if not too tired, you can 
return and stroll over the marble pavement, and listen to 
the vespers that, chaunted in a side chapel, come stealing 
sweetly out into the amplitude, and float away among 
the arches in ravishing melody. The lamps are burning 
dimly before the altar—twilight is deeping over the glori¬ 
ous structure, and forms, in strange costumes, are slowly 



TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


125 


passing and repassing over the tesselated floor. The heart 
becomes subdued under the influence of sight, and sound, 
and a feeling almost of superstition will creep over the 
sternest heart. The gloom grows deeper, leaving nothing 
distinctly seen, while that vesper hymn steals forth 
on the bewildered ear, like a strain from the unseen 
world. 

Truly yours. 


XXV. 

Illumination of St. Peter’s. The Cirandola. 

Rome, April, 1815. 

Dear E.—I was too weary to give you in my last a 
description of the closing up of Easter Sunday. It is a 
principle in all Catholic ceremonies, never to wind off 
gradually, as is too frequently the case among Protes¬ 
tants, but to have the last display the most magnificent of 
all. Thus on Easter Sunday, the closing up of Holy 
Week, the Papal throne crowds its entire pomp into its 
ceremonies, and as, during the day, the interior of St. 
Peter’s has done its utmost to magnify his Holiness, so 
at night the exterior must do its share of glorification. 
This great building, covering several acres, is illuminated 
in its entire outer surface. It is an operation of great 
expense, and attended with much danger. It is caused 
by suspending four thousand four hundred lanterns upon 
it, covering it from the dome down. To accomplish this, 
men have to be let down with ropes, over every part 
of the edifice, and left dangling there for more than an 
hour. Even from the base of the church they look like 
insects creeping over the surface. Hanging down the 
precipitous sides of the immense dome, standing four 
hundred feet high in the air, is attended with so much 
danger, that the eighty men employed in it always receive 
extreme unction before they attempt it. The last sacra¬ 
ment is taken, and their accounts settled, both for this 
world and the next, so that death would not, after all, 
be so great a calamity. The Pope must amuse the peo- 



126 


TKAVELS IN ITALY. 


pie, and glorify his reign, though he hazard human life in 
doing it. But he has the magnanimity to secure the suf¬ 
ferer from evil in the next world. If a rope break, and 
the man is crushed into a shapeless mass on the pave¬ 
ment below, his soul immediately ascends to one of the 
most favoured seats in Paradise. He fell from God’s 
church—he died in the attempt to illuminate it, and in obe¬ 
dience to God’s vicegerent on earth. How can the man 
help being saved ? But to make assurance doubly sure,, 
the Pope gives him a passport with his own hand, which 
he declares St. Peter, who sits by the celestial gates, will 
most fully recognize. This is very kind of the Pope. If 
he kills a man, he sends him to heaven, and secures him 
a recompense in the next world for all he lost in this. 
The ignorant creature who is willing to undertake the 
perilous operation for the sake of a few shillings, where¬ 
with to feed his children, believes it all, and fearlessly 
swings in mid heaven, where the yielding of a single 
strand of the rope would precipitate him where the very 
form of humanity would be crushed out of him. 

But one forgets all this in looking at the illumination* 
which is impossible to describe. There are two illumina¬ 
tions. The first is called the silver one, and commences 
about eight o’clock in the evening. These four thousand 
four hundred lamps are so arranged as to reveal the en¬ 
tire architecture of the building. Every column, cornice,, 
frieze and window—all the details of'the building, and 
the entire structure, are revealed in a soft, clear light* 
producing an effect indescribably pleasing, yet utterly 
bewildering. It seems an immense alabaster building* 
lit from within. The long lines of light made by the 
columns, with the shadows between—the beautiful 
cornice glittering over the darkness under it—the mag¬ 
nificent semicircular colonnades all inherent with light 
and every one of the hundred and ninety-two statues 
along its top surmounted with a lamp, and the immense 
dome rising over all, like a mountain of molten siver, in 
the deep darkness around; so completely delude the 
senses that one can think of nothing but a fairy fabric 
suddenly lighted and hung in mid heavens. This effect* 
however, is given only when one stands at a distance. 
The Pincian hill is the spot from which to view it. All 
i . . . in deep darkness, except that steadily 

shining glory. Not a sound is heard to break the still- 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


127 


ness, and you gaze, and gaze, expecting every moment 
to see the beautiful vision fade. But it still shines calmlv 
on. 

This illumination lasts from eight to nine, and just as 
the bell of the Cathedral strikes nine, sending its loud 
and solemn peal over the city, a thousand four hundred 
and seventy-five torches are suddenly kindled, beside 
the lanterns. The change is instantaneous and almost 
terrific. The air seems to waver to and tro in the sud¬ 
den light—shape and form are lost for a moment, and 
the vision which just charmed your senses is melting and 
flowing together. The next moment, old St. Peter’s 
again draws its burning outline against the black sky, 
and stands like a mountain of torches in the deep night, 
with a fiery cross burning at the top. How the glorious 
structure burns, yet unconsumed ! The flames wrap it in 
their fierce embrace, and yet not a single detail is lost in 
the conflagration. There is the noble facade in all its 
harmony, and yet on fire. There are the immense colon¬ 
nades wavering in the light, changed only in that they 
are now each a red marble shaft. The statues stand un« 
harmed, and all fiery figures. The dome is a vast fire¬ 
ball in the darkness, yet its distinct outline remains as 
clear as at the first. The whole mighty edifice is there, 
but built all of flame—columns, frieze, cornice, windows, 
towers, dome,—cross—a temple of fire, perfect in every 
part, flashing, swaying, burning in mid heavens. The 
senses grow bewildered in gazing on its intense bril¬ 
liancy, and the judgment pronounces it an optical 
illusion, unreal, fantastical. Yet the next moment it 
stands corrected—that is St. Peter’s, flaming, unwasted 
in the murky heavens. Hour after hour it blazes on, and 
the last torch is yet unextinguished when the grey 
twilight of morning opens in the east. This you say is 
a glorious spectacle ; yes, but it is on Sabbath evening — 
The successor of the apostle—the spiritual head of the 
church—the “ vicegerent of God on earth has sanctified 
the Sabbath by this glorious illumination in honour of the 
Son of God !” What a preposterous idea, what a magnifi¬ 
cent folly ! And do you think the modern Roman is so 
complete a fool as to believe in the propriety and religion 
of all this ? By no means. He admires and enjoys the 
spectacle, then sneers when it is over. 

There are hundreds who go to witness it and return to 


123 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


their homes with dark and bitter thoughts in their bosoms. 
The patriot (for there are patriots still in Rome, mindful 
of her ancient glory), to sigh over his degenerate country 
—the poor and half-starved artisan (for there are many 
such in the imperial city), to curse the wastefulness of 
his monarch and spiritual father, who in this costly 
amusement robbed hundreds of mouths of their daily 
bread. Could one look through the darkness that wraps 
Rome beneath the calm surface that is presented to the 
eye, he would see rebellion enough were it once harmonized 
and concentrated, to shake the papal throne into frag¬ 
ments on its ancient foundations. The flames around 
St. Peter’s would be seen to be typical of the moral fires 
around the seat of Papacy. But the embrace of the latter 
would not be found so harmless as that of the other, and 
men would not gaze on it in such pleasing ecstacy, but 
with the dark forebodings of him who feels the first throb 
of a coming earthquake. The years do not move round 
in a tread-mill, but each pushes on its fellow, and all are 
tending to a certain goal. They have their mission and 
God his designs, and he is stupid and blind who believes 
that man can always be deluded by the same follies. 
The age of interrogation has commenced. Men begin to 
ask questions in Rome as well as in America, and every 
one tells on the fate of papacy more than a thousand 
cannon shot. Physical force is powerless against such 
enemies, while pageantry and pomp only increase the 
clamour and discontent. 

How much more befitting the head of any church, how¬ 
ever corrupt, or the monarch on any throne, however 
oppressive, to take the thousands of pounds spent in these 
two illuminations and buy bread for the poor ! Were this 
done, the day of evil might be postponed; for on the 
Pope’s head would be rained the blessings of the poor, 
which under the government of heaven are always so 
powerful to avert evil. The money squandered on these 
illuminations would have poured joy through hearts that 
seldom feel its pulsations, and been a benediction that 
the poor would have understood and appreciated. To 
spread out one’s empty hands over the multitude is an 
easy thing and accomplishes nothing. But with those 
hands to fill thousands of hungry mouths, would accom¬ 
plish much, and exhibit something of the paternal care of 
a “ Father.” 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


129 

But this does not close the ceremonies of Holy week. 
The Pope furnishes one more magnificent spectacle to his 
subjects and his flock. The next night after the grand 
illumination is the “ Girondola,” or fire-works of his 
Holiness; and we must say that he does far better in 
getting up fire-works than religious ceremonies. This 
“ Girondola” does credit to his taste and skill. It is the 
closing act of the magnificent farce, and all Rome turns 
out to see it. About half-way from the Corso—the Broad¬ 
way of Rome—to St. Peter’s, the famous marble bridge 
of Michael Angelo crosses the Tiber. The castle of St. 
Angelo, formerly the vast and magnificent tomb of Adrian, 
stands at the farther end. This castle is selected for the 
display of the fire-works. None of the spectators are 
permitted to cross the bridge, so that the Tiber flows be¬ 
tween them and the exhibition. There is a large open 
area as you approach the bridge, capable of holding 
twenty or thirty thousand people, or perhaps more. In 
a portion of this, near the river, chairs are placed, to be 
let to strangers at two or four pauls a-piece, according as 
one is able to make a good bargain. The windows of the 
neighbouring houses that overlook the scene are engaged 
weeks beforehand. The ordinary price of a seat, or even 
of a good standing spot in one of these houses, is a scudi. 
Towards evening the immense crowd begin to move in 
the direction of St. Angelo, and soon the whole area, and 
every window and house-top, is filled with human beings. 
About eight the exhibition commences. The first scene 
in the drama represents a vast Gothic cathedral. How 
this is accomplished I cannot tell. Everything is buried 
in darkness, when suddenly, as if by the touch of an en¬ 
chanter’s wand, a noble Gothic cathedral of the size of 
the immense castle, stands in light and beauty before you. 
The arrangement of the silver-like lights is perfect; and 
as it shines on silent and still in the surrounding dark¬ 
ness, you can hardly believe it is not a beautiful vision. 
It disappears as suddenly as it came, and for a moment 
utter darkness settles over the gloomy castle. Yet it is 
but for a moment. The next instant a sheet of flame 
bursts from the summit with a fury perfectly appalling ; 
white clouds of sulphureous smoke roll up the sky, 
accompanied with molten fragments and detonations 
that shake the very earth beneath you. It is the re- 
i 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


130 

presentation of a volcano in fall eruption, and a mosfr 
vivid one too. Amid the spouting fire, and murky 
smoke, and rising fragments, the cannon of the castle 
are discharged, out of sight, almost every second. Report 
follows report with stunning rapidity, and it seems for a 
moment as if the solid structure would shake to pieces. 
At length the last throb of the volcano is heard, and sud¬ 
denly from the base, and sides, and summit of the castle, 
start innumerable rockets, and serpents, and Roman 
candles, while revolving wheels are blazing on every 
side. The heavens are one arch of blazing meteors—the 
very Tiber flows in fire, while the light, falling on ten 
thousand upturned faces, presents a scene indescribably 
strange and bewildering. For a whole hour it is in a 
constant blaze. The flashing meteors are crossing and 
recrossing in every direction—fiery messengers are tra¬ 
versing the sky overhead, and amid the incessant whiz¬ 
zing, and crackling, and bursting, that is perfectly 
deafening, comes at intervals the booming of cannon. At 
length the pageant is over, and the gaping crowd surge 
back into the city. Lent is over—the last honours are 
done to God by his revealed representative on earth, and 
the Church stands acquitted of all neglect of proper ob¬ 
servances. Is it asked again if the people are deceived 
by this magnificence ? By no means. A stranger, an 
Italian, stood by me as I was gazing on the spectacle, 
and we soon fell into conversation. He was an intelli¬ 
gent man, and our topic was Italy. He spoke low but 
earnestly of the state of his country, aud declared there 
■was as much genius and mind in Italy now as ever, but 
they were not fostered. An imbecile, yet oppressive go¬ 
vernment, monopolised all the wealth of the state, and 
expended it in just such follies as these, while genius 
starved and the poor died in want. I have never heard 
the poor Pope so berated in my own country. At the 
close of the representation of a volcano, I remarked that 
it resembled perdition. “ Yes,” said he, with a most 
bitter sneer, “ hell is in Rome now-ci-days .” Had the Pope 
or one of his gens-d’armes heard it, he would have seen 
the inside of a prison before morning. I was exceedingly 
interested in him, for he was an intelligent and earnest 
man, and when I turned to go away I took him by the 
band and bade him good-bye, saying, “ Another day is 
finished.” " Yes,” he replied, with the same withering, 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


13X 

sneer, “ another day of our Master, another day of our 
Lord and Saviour Jesus Christy I was perfectly thun¬ 
derstruck at the man’s boldness. Such a satire on his 
Holiness, and his mode of celebrating a holy day, in the 
midst of a crowd, startled me, and I trembled lest his 
imprudence should bring down on him the vengeance of 
papal power. But the man’s heart was evidently full of 
bitterness at the mockery and folly before him, while his 
country lay prostrate in the dust. “ Addiof said he, as 
he shook my hand, and the next moment was lost in the 
crowd. Many a time have I thought of him since, and 
would give much to know his after history. Perhaps he 
has before this suffered as a conspirator, and gone with 
the multitude of those whose tongues his Holiness has 
silenced in prison or death. And yet the man was right. 
What a close to religious ceremonies had these last two 
nights been. Their moral effect on the people was like 
that of any fireworks, with the exception that the suc¬ 
cessor of the apostles had got up these and graced the 
Sabbath with the illumination, having provided before¬ 
hand for the breaking of a few necks, by administering 
the last sacrament to the poor creatures who climbed up 
St. Peter’s. The sanctity and infallibility of the Spiritual 
Father are not so easy to believe in under the shadow of 
the papal throne, and it puzzled us prodigiously to account 
for the conversions to Catholicism of English and Ameri¬ 
cans at Rome. How a man of ordinary sense and pene¬ 
tration can become a Romanist in Rome, is passing 
strange. 

But it is now late at night—the noise and magnificence 
of the day are over. Rome is once more asleep, and the 
same moon that shone on the ancient capital, looks 
mournfully down on the few columns that stand in the 
old Roman Forum. In the ancient circus of Nero, all this 
religious pomp has been to-day. Around St. Peter’s is 
now the gathering and the greatness—formerly it was 
around the Coliseum. But to-day the Coliseum has been 
forgotten; no foot has sought its falling corridors. The 
gladiatorial shows have been exchanged for popish ones; 
and the Roman Eagle that flew over the old City has been 
smitten down by the Cross, and Pagan Rome has become 
Christian Rome. What revolutions time effects! His 
chariot-wheels, as they roll along, drag down thrones and 
empires, and leave on their ruins a Christian Emperor and 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


132 

a Christian government. They roll on, and Christianity 
is stretched in the dust, and its fragments lie scattered 
over the wreck of its foe. They will still roll on, and 
another scene is to be displayed on the ruins of both, and 
more glorious than either. Ruins are piled on rums till 
history seems but a record of overthrows. 

it guch is the moral of all human tales. 

'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past: 

First freedom, and then glory—when that fails. 

Wealth, vice, corruption, barbarism at last. 

And history with all her volumes vast, i 
Hath but one page.” 


Affectionately yours. 


XXVI. 


Chaunting of the Miserere. 


April. 


Dear E.— One of the most impressive ceremonies of 
Holy Week is the chaunting of the Miserere. Music is 
everywhere in this land of passion and pleasure. It 
bursts on jmu from the palace and the hovel—out of 
every house and every vineyard, and seems a part of the 
atmosphere, and to have almost the power to remove the 
curse of despotism itself. 

But to know the full effect of song and scenery together, 
one must hear the chaunting of the Miserere in the Sistine 
Chapel of St. Peter’s. That the Pope should select the 
best singers of the world for this service is not strange, 
but that he should with these be able to produce the 
effect he does is singular. The night on which our Savi¬ 
our is supposed to have died is selected for this service. 
The Sistine Chapel is divided in two parts by a high 
railing, one half being given to the spectators, and the 
other half reserved for the Pope, his cardinals and the 
choir. The whole is dimly lighted, to correspond with 
the gloom of the scene shadowed forth. This dim twi¬ 
light falling over the motionless forms of priest and monk 
and cardinals, and the lofty frescoed arches, together 



TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


133 

with the awful silence that seemed hanging like a pall 
over all the scene, heightened inconceivably the effect to 
us. 

The ceremonies commenced with the chaunting of the 
Lamentations. Thirteen candles, in the form of an erect 
triangle, were lighted up in the beginning, representing 
the different moral lights of the ancient church of Israel. 
One after another was extinguished as the chaunt pro¬ 
ceeded, until the last and brightest one at the top, re¬ 
presenting Christ , was put out. As they one by one 
slowly disappeared in the deepening gloom, a blacker 
night seemed gathering over the hopes and fate of man 
and the lamentation grew wilder and deeper. But as the 
Prophet of prophets, the Light, the Hope of the world, 
disappeared, the lament suddenly ceased. Not a sound 
was heard amid the deepening gloom. The catastrophe 
was too awful, and the shock too great to admit of 
speech. He who had been pouring his sorrowful notes; 
over the departure of the good and great seemed struck 
suddenly dumb at this greatest woe. Stunned and stupi- 
fied, he could not contemplate the mighty disaster. I 
never felt a heavier pressure on my heart than at this 
moment. The chapel was packed in every inch of it, 
even out of the door far back into the ample hall, and yet 
not a sound was heard. I could hear the breathing of 
the mighty multitude, and amid it the suppressed half- 
drawn sigh. Like the chaunter, each man seemed to say, 
“Christ is gone, we are orphans—all orphans!” The 
silence at length became too painful. I thought I should 
shriek out in agony, when suddenly a low wail, so deso¬ 
late and yet so sweet, so despairing and yet so tender, 
like the last strain of a broken heart, stole slowly out 
from the distant darkness and swelled over the throng, 
that the tears rushed unbidden to my eyes, and I could 
have wept like a child in sympathy. It then died away 
as if the grief were too great for the strain. Fainter, 
and fainter, like the dying tone of a lute, it sunk away as 
if the last sigh of sorrow was ended, when suddenly 
there burst through the arches a cry so piercing and shrill 
that it seemed not the voice of song, but the language of 
a wounded and dying heart in its last agonizing throb. 
The multitude swayed to it like the forest to the blast. 
Again it ceased, and the broken sobs of exhausted grief 
alone were heard. In a moment the whole choir joined 


134 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


their lament and seemed to weep with the weeper. After 
a few notes they paused again, and that sweet, melan¬ 
choly voice mourned on alone. Its note is still in my 
ear. I wanted to see the singer. It seemed as if such 
sounds could come from nothing but a broken heart. Oh 1 
how unlike the joyful, the triumphant anthem that swept 
through the same chapel on the morning that symbolized 
the resurrection. 

There is a story told of this Miserere, for the truth of 
which we can only refer to rumour. It is said that the 
Emperor of Austria sent to the Pope for a copy of the 
music, so that he could have it performed in his own 
cathedral. It was sent, as requested, but the effect of 
the performance was so indifferent that the emperor 
suspected a spurious copy had been imposed on him, and 
he wrote to his Holiness, intimating as much, and hinting 
also that he would find it for his interest to send him a 
true copy. The Pope wrote back that the music he had 
sent him was a genuine copy of the original, but that 
the little effect produced by it was owing to the want of 
the scenery, circumstances, &c., under which it was per¬ 
formed in St. Peter’s. It may be so. The singer, too, is 
doubtless more than half. The power of a single voice 
is often wonderful. We remember an instance of this on 
Easter Sunday, as the procession was moving up and down 
the ample nave of St. Peter’s, carrying the Pope on their 
shoulders as they marched. In the procession was a fat P 
stout monk, from the north of Italy, who sung the bass 
to the chaunt with which the choir heralded the approach 
of his Holiness. A band of performers stationed in a 
balcony at the farther end of the church was in full blast 
at the time, yet over it, and over the choir, and up 
through the heaven-seeking dome, that single voice 
swelled clear and distinct as if singing alone. It filled 
that immense building, through which were scattered 
nearly thirty thousand people, as easily as a common 
voice would fill an ordinary room. 

No where is music so spontaneous and voluntary as in 
Italy, and no where is it studied with such untiring and 
protracted effort. We might except the Germans here* 
who, perhaps, are as great composers as the Italians. 
But there is mo song in the stern old Saxon heart. The 
sudden and exciting transitions of music are not found in 
their character. The free and fountain-like gushings 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


135 

forth of feeling in an Italian render him peculiarly fitted 
to enjoy and utter music, though we think this very trait 
in his character was formed in the first place by music. 
They have reacted on each other, making both the Italian 
and his music what they are. 

It is a singular fact that the best singers of Italy 
come from the northern provinces. The people of the 
south are more fiery and passionate, yet less distinguished 
for music, than those of the north. Nothing strikes 
the traveller in Italy with more force, or lives in his 
memory longer, than the gay street singing of the lower 
classes, yet one hears little of this in Rome or Naples. 
There is a sombre aspect on old Rome, taken from its 
silent haughty ruins, giving apparently a colouring to 
the feelings of the people. The gay, light-hearted Nea¬ 
politan seems too gay for music—like the French, his 
spirits burst out in action. The Piedmontese are for ever 
singing, while Genoa is the only Italian city over which 
our memory lingers ever fresh and ever delighted. There 
is not a moonlight night in which its old palaces do not 
ring with the song of the strolling sailor-boy or idle 
lounger. The rattling of wheels seldom disturbs the 
quietness of the streets, while the lofty walls of the 
palaces confine and prolong the sound like the roof of a 
cavern. The narrow winding passages now shut in the 
song till only a faint and distant echo is caught, and now 
let it forth in a full volume of sound, ever changing like 
the hues of feeling. Hours and hours have we lain 
awake, listening to these thoughtless serenaders, who 
seemed singing solely because the night was beautiful. 
You will often hear voices of such singular power and 
melody ringing through the clear atmosphere that you 
imagine some professional musicians are out on a sere¬ 
nade to a “ fayre ladye.” But when the group emerges 
into the moonlight, you see only three or four coarse-clad 
creatures, evidently from the very lowest class, saunter¬ 
ing along, arm in arm, singing solely because they prefer 
it to talking. And, what is still more singular, you never 
see three persons, not even boys, thus singing together, 
without carrying along three parts. The common and 
favourite mode is for two to take two different parts, 
while the third, at the close of every strain, throws in a 
deep bass chorus. You will often hear snatches from 
$he most beautiful operas chaunted along the streets by 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


13GT 

those from whom you would expect nothing but obscene 
songs. This spontaneous street singing charms us more 
than the stirring music of a full orchestra. It is the 
poetry of the land—one of its characteristic features— 
living in the memory years after every thing else has 
faded. We like, also, those much abused hand-organs, 
of every description, greeting you at every turn. They 
are the operas of the lazzaroni and children, and help to 
fill up the picture. Passing once through a principal 
business street of Genoa, we heard at a distance a fine, 
yet clear and powerful voice that at once attracted our 
attention. On approaching we found it proceeded from 
a little blind boy not over eight years of age. He sat on 
the stone pavement, with his back against an old palace, 
pouring forth song after song with astonishing strength 
and melody. As we threw him his penny, we could not 
help fancying how he would look sitting in Broadway, 
with his back to the Astor House, and attempting to 
throw his clear, sweet voice over the rattling of omni¬ 
buses and carriages that keep even the earth in a con¬ 
stant tremor. 


Truly, yours. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


137 


XXVII. 

System of Farming in the Papal States. Suffering of the Peasantry. 

Rome, April. 

Dear E.—Though you are not much of a farmer, per¬ 
haps the farming system, as it works in the states of his 
Holiness, may not be uninteresting. The Mezzaria sys¬ 
tem, or letting the farm upon shares, is the old and uni¬ 
versal custom, both in the Papal States and in Tuscany. 
The landlord furnishes the necessary capital, and the tenant 
all the agricultural instruments and labour. The seed is 
paid for jointly, and the entire gross produce divided 
equally. This partnership of the landlord and tenant 
works very well in Tuscany, but destructively in the do¬ 
minions of the Church. This is owing to the want of en¬ 
couragement to industry, and the oppressive action of 
the government. The mode of managing rich arable lands 
around the eternal city, would be considered rather odd 
in the New World. I am not now speaking of the sys¬ 
tem of small farms with poor landlords and poorer 
tenants, but of the mode of farming the large districts. 
The tract of land called the Maremma district, embracing 
the territory that lies on the sea between Tuscany and 
Naples, the low land around Ferrara and Ravenna, and 
the Campagna around Rome itself, called by agricultur¬ 
ists, the “ Agro Romano,” are all divided into immense 
farms, owned of course by a few wealthy men. Thus 
the whole Maremma district is owned by only one hun¬ 
dred and and fifty farmers. So also in the Agro Romano, 
embracing 550,000 acres, exists the same impolitic divi¬ 
sion. One of the farms, called the “ Campo Marto,’* 
contains 20,000 acres, others 3,000, while there are none 
below 1,000. This whole territory is owned by forty- 
two or three landlords, called “ Mercanti di Campagna,’* 
(merchants of the country). They constitute a privileged 
corporation, under the protection of government. Each 
merchant rents several farms, paying tax only for that 
portion under cultivation. These Mercanti are, of course, 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


138 

extremely wealthy. They never reside on their farm» 7 
but build for themselves palaces in Rome, where they 
live in unbounded luxury. Their counting-houses and 
clerks are also all in the city. The “ fattoref as he 
is called in Italian, or steward, resides with a few herds¬ 
men in the solitary Casale—the only occupants of the im¬ 
mense plain. It requires a capital of £20,000 to manage 
one of the largest of these farms, and the smallest require 
£2,000.* The rent of the Campo Marto alone is £5,000 
a year. The Mezzaria system, as I remarked, prevails 
almost universally, although, in some parts, leases or 
fixed rents are common. This is where the large 
farms are let to individuals, who immediately subdivide 
them into smaller ones, and rent them to men of smaller 
capital. 

These immense half-barren tracts are as lonely looking^ 
as our western prairies; nay, more so, for the delapidated 
form of some old ruin rising on the view, tells you that 
it was not always so—that once, glorious structures 
adorned that plain, and the hum of a busy population 
was heard on its surface. I have seldom seen a more 
lonely spectacle than the rude mud huts, shaped like a 
beehive, of the herdsmen, standing here and there on the 
unfenced plain, while the stewards,, alone or with keeper© 
dressed in their shaggy sheep-skin coat, with pike in 
hand, were galloping amid the herds on their half-wild 
horses. They look more like Arabs than peaceful farmers. 
This system of grazing is practised only in the winter,, 
when on the Campagna alone are collected more than half 
a million sheep, and three or four hundred thousand of 
the large grey Roman oxen. In the summer, these plains 
become too hot and unhealthy for the herds, and they are 
driven off to the mountains, to graze on the green pas¬ 
tures of the Sabian hills and the high grounds around 
the city, where they feed in safety till the season of 
malaria is past. But the horses on which the herds¬ 
men ride are turned loose among the morasses, to 
take care of themselves. They feed with perfect im¬ 
punity on the unhealthiest tracts. I have seen them 
almost to their backs in swamps, feeding with the half¬ 
wild buffaloes and swine, that are equally impervious to 
the climate. In this savage state they run about till 


* Vid Murray. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


139 


autumn, when they are again caught, rode over the Cam- 
pagna, fit companions for their wild-looking riders. The 
crops are raised during summer, when the herds are 
among the hills, and the harvest is gathered in by the 
mountaineers, who dwell on the Yolscian hills and the 
more elevated land towards the frontier of Naples. At 
this time the heat is intense, and would make even the 
slave of a cotton plantation wince. The poor peasantry, 
who have been accustomed from their infancy to the 
fresh mountain breezes and clear running streams of their 
native home, lured by the prospect of gaining a few pauls 
to support their families during the approaching winter, 
descend into the plains, to gather in the harvest. Then 
the slaughter commences, and does not end till harvest 
is over, and often not even then. The malaria seizes the 
hardy mountaineer as its lawful prey, and hurries him 
with fearful rapidity into the grave. Unaccustomed to 
the scorching sun that beats on these plains, he finds him¬ 
self at night exhausted and feeble. Inured to toil, and 
delving among his native hills from morning till night, 
he wonders at his weariness. Without a hut to shelter 
him, he flings his complaining limbs on the damp earth, 
as he hasolten flung them on the mountain side, expecting 
the morning will find him fresh and vigorous as ever. 
But ere slumber has wrapt his weary form, the pestilen¬ 
tial vapours begin to steam up from the noxious earth, 
and noiselessly embrace their unconscious victim. In the 
morning, he who has felt all his life long bis blood leap in 
his veins like his native torrents, now feels it creeping 
heavy and hot through his depressed system. Ignorant of 
his danger, or the cause of his ills, he renews his task, 
and again staggers on under a burning son, and lies down 
again to sleep on the moist earth, in the embrace of his 
foe. The next day the poor fellow toils with hotter brain 
and a wilder pulse, and flings himself at night on the cool 
earth, from which he will never rise again to his labour. 
Thus, while the scanty harvest of grain is gathered in, 
the malaria has been reaping its richer harvest of men. 
Not scores and fifties, but hundreds are thus left every 
summer on the Roman Campagna, while the wives and 
children they hoped to feed by their industry, look in vain 
from their mountain homes for their coming, and turn to 
meet the winter with blasted hopes. Oh, what haggard 
faces, miserable forms, have I seen peep out from the low 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


140 

mud huts on the outskirts of this desolate region. Many 
that have dragged out the harvest season, come to the 
frontier hoping to recover; but the seeds of death are too 
deeply implanted, and they slowly waste away. In the 
more cultivated parts, grass and grain are grown alter¬ 
nately on the same land; but here on the Campagna, they 
raise only one crop of grain in four years; the interme¬ 
diate time is left for grazing. 

What a contrast this country presents to its former 
greatness, and to my own land. When the Caesars owned 
these palace and temple-covered plains, and their haughty 
legions thundered over them—who would have believed 
that the time would ever come when nought but a few 
solitary herdsmen would gallop across them; or, stranger 
still, that a then unbroken forest, beyond the unknown 
ocean, would be a fruitful field, and its crowded popula¬ 
tion look with pity on Roman desolation. The mightiest 
empire the world ever saw, and an untrod forest, stood 
on the same earth together. The mighty empire has be¬ 
come a desolate province, while the wilderness has be¬ 
come greater than an empire. Rome, the mistress of the 
world, rules now a territory less than the state of New 
York. The eagle that soared over the imperial city, has 
left it and her battling armies, and now sails with our 
commerce. Men flock to her to see fading glory—to our 
shores to behold rising glory. Not merely the “ school¬ 
master” but the merchant “ is abroad,” laying his hand 
on objects and places the poet and scholar have long 
considered holy. Institutions and structures honoured 
by time and great names are no longer sacred to him. 
The scholar may complain and the enthusiast weep,—it 
matters not, the spirit and power are abroad, and there 
is no resisting either. The old Roman Forum is turned 
into a rope-walk to make ropes and cordage for com¬ 
merce, and the Baths of Diocletian into a cotton mill. 

Truly yours. 


TRAVELS IN ITALV. 


141 


XXVIII. 

The Coliseum at Midnight. 


Rome, Aprils 

Dear E.—Last night was a beautiful clear night, and 
“the full round moon” seemed sailing the heavens on 
purpose to see how mysterious and solemn a light she 
could throw over the ruins of ancient Rome. Byron says 
the Coliseum should always be seen by moonlight, as the 
glare of day is too strong for it. So acting under his 
advice I sallied forth at midnight to visit it. It is at least 
a mile or a mile and a half from the centre of the city, 
and the dark and deserted streets and Trajan’s lonely 
column that stood in the way, naturally put me in the 
mood to enjoy a ramble through it. I passed through the 
ruins of the Basilica of Constantine, climbed over its fallen 
columns, and finally emerged into the open moonlight 
right before the Coliseum. Its high and uneven top stood 
against the blue sky, with the pale and yellow light falling 
all over it, while the arches opened like caverns beneath, 
and the clambering ivy glistened and rustled in the pass=* 
ing night wind. Here, said I to myself, one can for once 
romance and dream with nothing but the moonlight and 
the Coliseum to criticise him. But alas ! my expectations 
were soon blasted, for to my surprise, as I approached, I 
saw a long line of carriages drawn up under the arches. 
Other people knew the Coliseum looked well by moonlight 
beside myself. I was half-inclined to turn back, but 
finally concluded to enjoy it another way—by seeing how 
the fashionable world took such a scene. After groping 
through one of the arches, by which a carriage stood, 
with the driver fast asleep on the box, I stepped into the 
arena and looked around me. Arch above arch, seat 
above seat, arose that vast amphitheatre, the ruined 
corridors, the black cavernous arches, the rustling ivy<> 
the mysterious grandeur of the whole, and the sudden 
rush of centuries over the weak and staggering memorj r , 
completely swept every thing but the past from my 


142 


TEAVELS IN ITALY. 


vision. I felt afraid where I stood—I could not wholly 
grasp the scene—I seemed amid something awful, and 
yet could hardly tell what. I turned, and lo! I was 
leaning over the lion’s den. I started, as if a sudden roar 
had burst up around me. The next moment it was all 
gone. The quiet moon was sailing along the quiet sky— 
the night breeze sighed mournfully by, and nature was 
breathing long and peacefully. 

A gay laugh dispersed the whole, as a fashionable couple 
passed near me, speaking of some one’s grand soiree. I 
wandered around, meeting groups of sauntering idlers, 
talking French, Italian, and German. A French couple 
promenaded backward and forward across the arena, 
without once looking up to the moonlit ruin. They spoke 
low and earnestly, and their walk was of that slow and 
steady pace which always denotes an absorbed mind. I 
stood for a long while in the shadow of the ruins and 
watched them. It was a love scene in the Coliseum, but 
the Coliseum itself was quite forgotten. The voice of 
one man thrilled deeper in that fair one’s heart than the 
thousand-tongued ruin around her. Her heart was busy 
amid other scenes. Under its magic power the Coliseum 
was buried and Rome forgotten, aud a fabric more beauti- 
fnl than both, in their glory was reared above them—a 
fairy fabric where love dwelt and fate spun her golden 
thread. Alas, I sighed, as I turned away, there are more 
ruins in the world than the Coliseum, and more awful. 
The saddest fragments are not those that meet the eye, 
and the light that memory flings over buried hopes, is 
lonelier than moonlight here. 

This second dream was also dispelled by a shout above 
me: a company, guided by a man with a torch, now 
emerged in view overhead, and again dropped through the 
corridors. Suddenly a French girl near me exclaimed, as 
they again came on to an arch and stood looking down 
upon us, “ C’est tres joli “ Oui was the answer. 
“ C’est magnifiquej' 1 and then a laugh as clear and mirth¬ 
ful as ever rung from a careless heart. I wished also to 
ascend the ruin for the view, but kept deferring it, as it 
was necessary to have a guide and torch to prevent one 
from venturing over weak arches and tumbling down 
ruined flights of steps. It was abominable to be com¬ 
pelled to trot around after a sleepy guide who was think¬ 
ing the while of the paul each was to give him. It 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


143 

seemed downright sacrilege, but I must do it, or not go 
at all. So I joined a mixed party of ladies and gentle¬ 
men, and commenced the ascent just as one does an un¬ 
pleasant duty. I followed doggedly the guide and torch 
awhile, when, seizing a favourable opportunity, I dodged 
one side, threaded my way amid the darkness to the 
top of the building, and clambering over a ruined parapet, 
lay down, determined to take my own time to view the 
Coliseum. The humdrum guide did not miss me, and I 
was left alone with the Coliseum and the night. One by 
one the groups retired, and I heard with joy the last 
carriage rattle away toward the city. Behind me stood 
the arch of Constantine—on my left was the Palatine 
bill, the Roman forum with its few remaining columns 
and the Capitol, and beneath me was the arena where 
thousands had been “ butchered to make a Roman holi¬ 
day.” Up those very stone steps below me had passed 
hasty feet more than a thousand years ago. Right 
around me had been the bustle and hum of the eager 
assembly. Before me, through that grand archway in 
which now the bayonet of a solitary sentinel glistened, 
had passed the triumphal Caesars, while the mighty edi¬ 
fice rocked to the shout of the people. Beneath me, far 
down in the arena, on which the moonlight lay so peace¬ 
fully, had stood the gladiator while his quick ear caught 
the roar of the lion, aroused for the conflict. “ Hio 
habet ,” had been shouted from where I lay, as the steel 
entered some poor fellow’s bosom. There the dying 
gladiator had lain as the life stream ebbed slowly away, 
while his thoughts, far from the scene of strife, reckless 
who was the victor, were 


“ Where his rude hut by the Danube lay— 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 
There was their Dacian mother.” 


Oh, what wild heart-breakings had been in that arena! 
Every inch of it had been soaked in blood, and yet not a 
stain was left—not a scar remained to tell of the death- 
struggles these walls had witnessed. The Caesars and 
the people, the slave and the martyred Christian, had all 
passed away. The spot where the one looked and the 
other suffered alone was left.—Thought crowded on 
thought a o I looked down upon it, till the solitude and 


TRAVELS IN ITALY, 


m 

silence became too painful for me. I seemed to have 
lived years in those few minutes. I turned to descend, 
but alas, I was without a guide or a torch, locked up on 
the Coliseum after midnight. To thread my way through 
the dark galleries and down the broken steps was no 
easy task; but after going and returning, mounting and 
descending for near a quarter of an hour, (and which 
seemed an hour,) I found the way, and landed safely at 
the entrance. After some thumping, the guide came and 
set me free. 

I returned through the Basilica of Constantine, and 
■while standing and musing over one of its fallen columns, 
I suddenly heard the scream of a night bird which came 
from the Palatine hill, and was echoed back by another 
from near the Capitol. I had never heard it then, though 
I often have since. It was a shrill, single cry, that, heard 
amid those ruins at midnight, was indescribably thrilling. 
—Right above me, on a ruined front, leaned several mar¬ 
ble statues, in attitudes so natural, that it was almost im¬ 
possible to believe they were not human beings keeping 
watch among the ruins. Just then the wind began to 
sweep by in gusts, shaking the ivy over my head, while 
the wild, mournful cry of that night bird seemed like the 
wail of a ghost amid the surrounding desolation. The 
hour, the place, and the silence, made it too lonely. It 
was fearful. I would stand and listen, anxious, yet 
afraid to hear it repeated; and when again it rung over 
the ruins, it sent the blood back with a quicker flow to 
my heart. I passed under the great arch, and began to 
enter the city, feeling as if I had heard the ghost of Rome 
crying out amid her ancient ruins. But I know all de¬ 
scription must seem rhodomontade to you at this distance, 
yet to a heart that has not lost all worship for “ the great 
and the old,” it is widely different. The only good de¬ 
scription I have ever seen, is in Byron’s Manfred. It m 
much better than in Childe Harold. 


“ I do remember me that in my youth 
When I Was wandering; upon such a night 
I stood within the Coliseum’s wall 
’Midst the chief relics of Almighty Rome; 

The trees which grew along the broken arches 
Waxed dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 
Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar 
The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and 


TRAVELS IN ITALY, 


145 


More near from out the Caesars’ palace came 
The owl’s long cry, and interruptedly 
Of distant sentinel’s the distant song 
Began and died upon the gentle wind. 

Some cypress beyond the time-worn beach 
Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
Within a bow-shot where the Caesars dwelt. 

* # % * 

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
All this, and cast a wide and tender light 
Which softened down the hoar austerity 
Of rugged desolation, and filled up. 

As ’twere anew, the gaps of centuries; 

Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 

And making that which was not, till the place 
Became religion, and the heart ran o’er 
With silent worship of the great and old f 
The dead but sceptred sovereigns who still rule 
Our spirits from their ruins.” 

Truly yours. 


K 


146 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


XXIX. 

Ruins and Epitaphs in Rome. 

Rome, April. 

Dear. E.—To-day I have had a beautiful drive with 
an English gentleman and his lady, without the walls of 
Modern Rome, amid the ruins of Ancient Rome, for yon 
know that the city formerly covered an area of which 
the present occupies but a fraction.—With its declining 
splendour it contracted itself, till, from the millions it was 
supposed formerly to contain, it now, suburbs and all ? 
counts scarcely 150,000. To-day has seemed a little 
more like being in Rome. I have been away from the 
rattling of carriages—the passing crowd—and what is 
still worse, long rows of gaily decorated shops. I have 
wandered over Old Rome, and the shadows ot its Caesars^ 
Scipios, and haughty leaders, have risen around. 

We first drove to the Temple of Vesta, which is now 
a church—a small orbicular building, of Greek architec¬ 
ture and surrounded by nineteen Corinthian columns of 
Parian marble. We then passed on to the tomb of Caius / 
Cestus, which is built in the form of the Pyramid. Neary 
by is the English Burial Ground. There I saw Shelley’s 
tomb, a plain marble tablet only. On it is written: 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLY.—“Cor Cordium.” 

•• Nothing of him that doth fade. 

But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange.”" 

Cor Cordium, “ heart of hearts,” is an allusion to the 
singular fact that when Byron and Hunt burned his body 
by the gulf of Spezia, his heart alone remained uncon¬ 
sumed. With all his scepticism, he was a kind-hearted 
man. His Italian teacher was mine at Genoa, and he 
told me that Shelley was a nobler man than either Byron 
or Hunt. In an adjoining cemetery sleeps John Keats. 
A small marble slab, half hid amid the long grass, stands 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


147 


over the young poet. On it is written, “ This grave con¬ 
tains all that was mortal of a young English poet, who, 
on his death-bed, in the bitternes of his heart, at the 
malicious power of his enemies, desired these words to 
be engraved on his tomb-stone : ‘ Here lies one whose 

name was writ in water.’” Feb. 28, 1821.—I stood 
alone over this solitary gave of genius and wept. I have 
read of broken hearts, but nothing ever indicated to 
me half so lonely and desolate a heart as the dying lan-,. . 
guage of Keats. So utterly broken was his spirit, and 
so reckless his despair, that he wanted to record his own 
ruin and have his very tomb-stone tell how worthless 
were his life and name. 

A strangely sensitive being he was, to feel so deeply an 
unjust criticism that a hired Reviewer could publish. 

Oh, can one envious tongue 
So blight and blast earth’s holiest things. 

That e’en the glorious bard that sings. 

Grows mute—and all unstrung. 

His bleeding, quivering heart gives o’er, 

And dies without one effort more t 

’Tis “ writ,” as thou hast said. 

Upon the cold gray marble there. 

Each word of that wild, bitter prayer. 

On which thy spirit fled ! 

But oh, that injured name is known, 

•• Far as the birds of fame have flown.” 


Yet thou hast said aright. 

Thy name is in the water writ. 

For tears are ever shed on it. 

Till dims the aching sight. 

By pilgrims from each distant land. 

Who, weeping, round thy grave-stone stand. 

I plucked a flower that was drooping with rain-drops 
beside the grave and turned away. 

From this we drove to the Basilica of St. Paul, formerly 
one of the most magnificent churches of Rome. In 1829, 
On the morning of the 16th of July, the whole roof was 
seen to be in flames, and very soon fell with a crash into 
the centre aisles, where the fire raged with such fury that 
it calcined the rich columns of Parian marble near it, and 
indeed destroyed the great part of the Church. They are 
jiow rebuilding it, and some of the fluted columns that 


148 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


escaped the fire, are the most beautiful I have ever seen. 
It wUl again be a noble edifice. From this we drove to 
the far-famed fountain of Egena. I t hm a grotto m the 
midst of a meadow all overhung with foliage. Within 
the side walls are several niches ; and at the extremity, 
a reclining statue, old and mutilated, often called the 
statue of the nymph. But it is a male statue and is 
doubtless that of a river god. Here (so runs the fable) 
the mortal and immortal used to sit and discourse ol an 
earthly passion, and watch the moon and stars sailing 
through the nightly heavens. Numa and the nymph 
meeting beside this fountain by moonlight, and breathing 
into each other’s ears language never repeated to mortals, 
are about all I remember of Livy and his hard sentences. 
I care not whether the story be true or false. I agree 
•with Byron— 

“ Whatsoe’er thy birth. 

Thou wcrt a beautiful thought and softly bodied forth.'*' 


Above it stands the Temple of Bacchus, and beyond , 
crowning a hill, a dense grove of olives. A company of 
English ladies stood on the green mound in front of the 
temple, while groups were strolling around in the bright 
meadow gathering flowers. It was a scene of beauty. 
The bright blue sky, and the exhilirating air, and the fra¬ 
grance of fields and flowers soon brought my spirits up 
to the enjoying point. 

The picturesque tomb of Cecilia Metella in ruins—the 
Circus of Romulus—the Catacombs of the old city, where 
martyrs sleep, followed in quick succession. Then the 
Tomb of the Scipios, through whose dark, damp, and 
silent chambers we passed by candle-light. Oh how 
strange over the empty sarcophagi to read in the mould¬ 
ering stone, the name of Scipio, and the date of burial. 
I had stood on the solitary sea-shore, where Africanus 
sleeps, and sighed over the fallen hero.—But here was a 
more familiar—a family scene; and I almost started 
from the close proximity of the Past. I felt like one 
who had ventured too far, and waa becoming too familiar 
with awful things. 

We then passed Caracalla’s Baths, the Palace of the 
Caesars, along the Appian Way, through the Sebastian 
Gate—passed by the Coliseum, under the Capitoline Hill, 
by the Roman Forum and its solemn ruins—entered the 


TRAVELS IN ITALY, 


HO 


city by the ancient Via Flaminia, now the gay Corsof 
and ended the day of great remembrances, as all days o, 
toil must be ended, in a hearty dinner. Yet all night 
long I was wandering amid old Rome. Its mailed le¬ 
gions thundered along the Appian Way—Cicero, and 
Brutus, and Caesar, and Nero, and gladiatorial shows, 
and fierce battle scenes, danced through my excited brain 
in most glorious confusion. 

Truly yours. 


XXX. 


The Capitol and Vatican. 


Rome, April 28, 1843. 

Dear E.—You may be surprised to find these two re¬ 
markable objects put in one letter, but I am going into no 
description of galleries. I wish to mention two or three 
things only in each. To-day I went to the Capitol, and 
after having traversed the length of the Corso I came to 
a noble flight of steps that brought me to the top of the 
Capitoline hill. The buildings on it were designed by 
Michael Angelo. They stand in the form of a parallelo¬ 
gram, with the main flight of steps at one end. At the 
bottom of the steps is the old Roman mile-stone that 
marked the first mile of the Appian way. At the top are 
two statues of Castor and Pollux standing beside their 
horses.—In the centre of the parallelogram stands the 
bronze equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius, the only one 
that has been handed down from antiquity. It is consi¬ 
dered the finest equestrian statue in existence. It was 
once covered with gold, and spots of the gilding still re¬ 
main. The enthusiastic love of Michael Angelo for it is 
well known. When it stood in front of the Lateran, it 
was an important object amid the festivities that cele¬ 
brated Rienzi’s elevation to the rank of Tribune. Amid 
the rejoicings of that memorable day, wine was made to 
run out of one nostril and water out of the other. 

The building at the farther end is the “ Palace of the 
Senators.” In the two side palaces are busts, statues, 



TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


150 

paintings, &c.—many of the deepest interest. Among’ 
others, the bronze wolf—“ the thunder-stricken nurse of 
Rome”—about which so much has been written and so 
much controversy expended in vain. From all that can 
be gathered, it is doubtless the one to which Cicero more 
than once alluded. The wolf was once struck with light¬ 
ning in the Capitol, and one leg of this has evidently been 
partly melted away in a similar manner. Said Cicero, in 
one of his memorable attacks on Cataline, “ Tactus est ille 
etiam gui lianc urbem condidit Romulus guem inauratum 
in Capotolio parvum atgue lactante?n, uberibus lupinis inhi- 
iintern fuisse meministis .” This, too, one of the objects of 
deepest reverence, had the Gods smitten, as an evidence 
of their anger. In the palace is the famous “ dying gla¬ 
diator.” This is one of those few statues I was not dis¬ 
appointed in. As I looked upon that manly dying form, 
and caught the mingled expression of pain and sorrow on 
his noble face, I could scarcely refrain from tears. I am 
vexed at the discussions of antiquarians about this statue. 
1 care not whether it be a fancy piece, or a slave, or a 
Gallic herald, or a dying gladiator. There he lies dying 
«—dying from a wound a foe has given him—dying too 
innocent. His whole expression tells of a man who 
fought from necessity, not will. There is no anger in it, 
but the reverse; none of the fierce passions that kindle in 
the human face when foe meets foe. The whole coun¬ 
tenance is beyond expression mournful. The eye utters 
his despair, telling in thrilling accents that the last hope 
of life is given up—the slightly wrinkled brow and yield¬ 
ing lip speak his pain, while the clotted hair tells of the 
long and exhausting fight before he fell. Every limb 
of the noble form speaks of the terrible exertion it has 
put forth in the struggle for life. And then over all the 
face is that dreamy expression that shows the heart is far 
away amid other scenes. How natural he lies upon his 
arm, gradually sinking lower and lower, as the “ big 
drops” ooze from the fountain of life! I thought of 
Byron as I stood beside it, and of the intense feeling 
with which he gazed upon it. His stanzas are the most 
literally correct description ever written. He has hit 
every expression of the figure, and when the “ inhuman 
shout” rung over the arena to his victor, you know 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


151 


** He heard it but he heeded not—his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away; 

He reeked not of the life he lost nor prize. 

But where his rude hut by the Daunbe lay. 

There were his young barbarians all at play, 

There was their Dacian mother—he their sire. 

Butchered to make a Roman holiday— 

All this rushed with his blood.” 

With one long stride step into the Vatican, as the papal 
palace, museum, &c., that join St. Peter’s, are called. 
Here is Laocoon, that men have poetized, as well as 
the dying gladiator, and yet it pleases me not. I have a 
feeling of horror it is true in looking upon it, and that is 
all. I have no deep sympathy for Laocoon himself. Master 
critics have long ago settled the perfection of the work. 
There is life and force in it. The little child with one 
foot raised to press down the folds of the serpent that 
are tightening around the other leg, is terribly true and 
life-like. But the whole expression of Laocoon is that of 
a ivealc man, utterly overcome with terror—mastered 
more completely by fear than a strong-minded man ever 
can be. There seems no resistance left in him, and you 
feel that such a character never could die decently. While 
I admired the work, I could not love the character. On 
the gladiator’s face such utter terror never could be writ¬ 
ten. The sights that could paint such fear on his features 
do not exist. I will not attempt to take you through the 
Vatican. This first time I roamed through it without 
guide-book or question. The Apollo Belvidere and 
Laocoon I could not mistake, neither did I wish any one 
to tell me when I came to the Transfiguration. The 
glorious figure of Christ in this latter picture, suspended 
in mid heaven, and the wonderful face, so unlike all other 
faces ever painted before, held me spell-bound in its pre¬ 
sence. Why could not the artist have left out the some 
dozen or more saints that he has placed below, gaping 
with astonishment on the wondrous spectacle? The 
three shining figures beside the still more radiant Saviour 
are enough to complete the group. The addition of 
others destroys the simplicity, and hence injure the gran¬ 
deur of the whole. It was foolish to attempt to improve 
on the original group. Yet I went away vexed and 
irritated. My utter inability to see half as it ought to 
be seen, prevented my enjoying any thing. Again and 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


152 

again I strolled through its immense halls, and can only 
say it is a forest of statuary, and ought to be divided 
among the world. But what shall I say of the Vatican ? 
How can I describe it ? I cannot—I can only say it is 
more than 1,000 feet long, and nearly 800 wide—that it 
contains eight grand staircases, 200 smaller ones, 20 
courts, and 4,422 apartments, and a library no one 
knows how large. 

Truly yours. 


XXXI. 


The Pope. Don Miguel. Mezzofanti. 

Rome, April. 

Dear E. —To-day I received an invitation to be pre¬ 
sented to his holiness the Pope, but as I found that 
“shorts” and some other inconvenient et ceteras were ne¬ 
cessary I declined. I regretted it afterwards, as I found 
I could have been presented in my ordinary dress. When¬ 
ever ladies are presented, court dress is not required. A 
lady unexpectedly became one of the number who were 
to accompany our consul to his holiness, and I could 
have seen him without # the inconvenience I anticipated. 

It was a matter of very little consequence, however, 
as .1 had on several occasions been within a few feet of 
him an hour at a time, and heard him speak, and got, as I 
supposed, a very good idea of the Man. He is nearly 
eighty years of age, but robust and healthy; he stoops 
considerably and walks slowly ; yet when he mounts his 
throne his step is light and elastic as that of a young 
man. He has marked aquiline features, a mild eye, and a 
very benignant countenance. He was a prelate of no 
distinction, and mounted to the chair of St. Peter as many 
others have been before him, by party strife. As soon as 
the Pope dies there commences a furious struggle between 
the rival families for the throne. The only way the Car¬ 
dinals can reconcile the factions, and escape from their 
imprisonment, often is to fall on some old and indifferent 
Cardinal and elect him. The present Pope Gregory was 



TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


153 


elected under these circumstances. He is not regarded 
as a very clever man, although he bears an excellent 
moral character. 

I forgot to mention that the other day at some exercises 
in the Sistine Chapel, I saw Don Miguel. He is a very 
good-looking man. He now lives at Albano, fifteen miles 
from Rome, whither he has been banished by the Pope. 
While he was in power in Portugal, he lavished his wealth 
on the Pope, who now, in return, supports him on a> 
salary, it is said, of four thousand pounds. The cause of 
his banishment was an insult he offered to the wife of 
Prince Borghese, one of the first families in the Papal do¬ 
minions. She was the daughter of the famous Catholic 
Earl of Shrewsbury, and with true English spirit, resent¬ 
ed deeply the insult offered her. Borghese told his Holi¬ 
ness either Don Miguel must leave Rome, or he. The 
Pope, placed in this dilemma, exiled Don Miguel fifteen 
miles off, to the beautiful hill of Albano, from whence he 
drives into town no oftener than he wishes. 

There is a singular custom here during Holy Week. 
Pilgrims from every quarter journey on foot during Easter 
to Rome, for which they are entertained at the Church 
of the “Trinita”—their feet washed by distinguished in¬ 
dividuals, who also serve them at table, and finally put 
them nicely to bed. They are the completest set of raga¬ 
muffins you ever beheld, and it is really revolting to look 
at their nasty feet. A few nights since Don Miguel at¬ 
tended in one of the convents attached to the Church, and 
washed and served several of these lousy beggars. Great 
merit is attached to this act, and Don Miguel expects, 
doubtless, to wash out, in his way, some of his peccadil¬ 
loes, of which there is any quantity. The next night, 
some friends and myself jumped into a carriage at St. 
Peter’s, and rode down to see the performance. The pil¬ 
grims all sat in a row, on an elevated bench, with each 
a wooden dish under his feet. There is no humbug about 
this washing, as there is in the Pope’s washing the disci¬ 
ples’ feet. The dirt on these beggars is, as Carlyle would 
say, well authenticated dirt, and it is no joke to remove 
it. Two Cardinals were amoDg the washers; and to my 
surprise, one of them I observed to be Cardinal Mezzo* 
fanti , the greatest linguist in the world. He speaks fifty- 
two different languages. His acquirements alone have 


154 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


obtained for him a Cardinal’s hat and Post-Mastership of 

The Pope attributes his knowledge of languages to 
a miraculous gift. Conversing to-day with a priest on 
the subject—a friend of Mezzofanti—he told me that 
Mezzofanti himself attributes his power in acquiring 
languages to the divine influence. He says that when 
an obscure priest in the North of Italy, he was called 
one day to confess two foreigners condemned for piracy 
•who were to be executed next day. On entering their 
cell he found them unable to understand a word he 
uttered. Overwhelmed with the thought that the 
criminals shovld leave this world without the benefits ot 
religion, he returned to his room resolved to acquire their 
language before morning. He accomplished his task, 
and next day confessed them in their own tongue. From 
that time on, he says, he has had no difficulty in master¬ 
ing the most difficult language. The purity of his 
motive in the first place, he thinks, influenced the Deity 
to assist him miraculously. A short time since a Swede, 
who could speak a patois peculiar to a certain province 
of Sweden, called on him, and addressed him in that 
dialect. Mezzofanti had never heard it before, and 
seemed very much interested. He invited him to call on. 
him often, which he did, while the conversation invari¬ 
ably turned on this dialect. At length the Swede calling 
one day, heard himself, to his amazement, addressed in 
this difficult patois . He inquired of the Cardinal, who 
had been his master, for he thought, he said, there was 
no man in Rome who could speak that language but 
himself. “ I have had no one,” he replied, “ but yourself 
— I never forget a word I hear once." If this be true, 
he has a miraculous memory at all events. This the 
priest told me he had from Mezzofanti himself. At home 
this would be headed “ Strange if true.” 

I forgot to say, while speaking of the ceremony of 
washing the pilgrims, feet, that there is a separate apart¬ 
ment in the same building for the females, and that prin¬ 
cesses are sometimes seen engaged in this menial office. 
Every one so washed receives a certificate of it, and if 
he wishes, medal entitling him to beg. 

At the ceremony of washing there were several pil¬ 
grims that were mere boys, who seemed frightened, 
enough at the sudden notoriety they had acquired. One 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


155 

iittle fellow in particular attracted ray notice. He was 
half frightened and half roguish; and between the 
curious gaze of the spectators, the odd position he was 
in, and the Cardinal in his awful robes at his feet; his 
countenance had a half scared, half comic look, and his 
eye rolled from the Cardinal to the spectators, and back 
again in such queer bewilderment that it quite upset my 
gravity, and I indulged in one of Leather Stocking’s 
long silent laughs. 

Truly yours. 


XXXII. 

New Mode of Selling Milk. Lake Tartarus. Adrian’s Villa. Tivoh. 

Tivoli, April. 

Dear E. —This morning, for once at least, I was up 
before the sun. A gentleman who formerly held an ap¬ 
pointment under our Goverment and finally married a 
wealthy English lady and spent his time in travelling, 
promised to call and take me in his carriage with him. 
and his lady to Tivoli. Of course I was sure not to 
keep them waiting, but was up betimes, and by means of 
it I made a remarkable discovery which I give for the 
exclusive benefit of New Yorkers. 

Morning after morning I had been awakened by a shrill 
signal whistle under my windows, and what it could 
mean at that early hour would always puzzle me till I 
fell asleep again. This morning as 1 opened the windows 
and stepped out upon the balcony (and by the way 
windows here are never made to rise, but to open like a 
double door), I was greeted by this same shrill whistle 
ringing directly beneath me. I looked down, and lo, it 
was the milkman's cry. A boy had driven to the door 
3ix or seven goats, and with his fingers in his mouth was 
whistling out the servant. In a few moments she ap¬ 
peared with her pint cup, which he took, and stepping up 
behind the goats milked it quite full, received his penny 
and drove on. Under a palace directly opposite I saw 
6hree cows standing iu the same way, the boy who drove 



TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


106 

them whistling away till the servant appeared, when he? 
milked the measure full, and then passed on towards the 
Corso. This plan, you perceive, introduced into New 
York, would effectually prevent watering the milk; and 
give it always fresh and pure from the fountain-head. 

In a few minutes the carriage drove up, and under as 
bright a sky as ever bent over the Caesars we rattled out 
of the city. We passed San Lorenzo gate and trotted 
along the “ Via Tiburtina,” crossed the Anio, and finally 
fetched up bv the monument of “ Giula Stemma.” I will 
not describe it. At length the walls on either side of 
the way, built entirely of petrifactions, reminded us that; 
we were in the vicinity of Lake Tartarus, “ Lago di 
Tartaro” the petrifying qualities of whose waters fur¬ 
nish the stone called travertine. Its sulphur stench was 
Tartarian enough, and at length it sparkled on our sight, 
a mere pond, in the midst of a large field. Petrifying its 
own borders, it has contracted its limits till it bids fair 
to petrify itself to death and become a stone lake. The 
rocks around it are all formed from moss and turf and 
masses of cane, whose tubes still remain in the stone. 
Remembering a certain brother of miue who has a per¬ 
fect mania for odd specimens of this sort, and who had 
never failed in every letter to insinuate in no ambiguous 
language that he supposed I would “ forget to pick up 
some odd stones” for him, I loaded down the carriage 
with fragments of rock to my particular discomfort. 

Leaving this we came to the Solfatara (sulphur) canal. 
The odour from this stream, which drains the ancient 
Aqua Albulae, was still stronger than from Tartarus. 
This canal is nine feet broad, two feet deep, and two 
miles long, and the water that flows rapidly through it 
is almost the colour of milk. The Aqua Albulae is about 
a mile distant, and by its petrifying qualities has con¬ 
tracted itself from a mile in circumference to 500 feet. 
Near by are the Baths of Agrippa, patronized by Au¬ 
gustus and enlarged by Queen Zenobia, who was per¬ 
mitted to retire to Tivoli with her children, after she had 
graced the triumphal entry of the ravager of Palmyra 
into Rome. 

A little distance from the road stands the ruins of 
Adrian’s villa—the most picturesque and imposing of 
any in Italy. They surpass those of the Palace of the 
Caesars. This villa was overthrown during the siege of 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


157 


Tiber by Totila. I will not describe to you the old 
Greek Theatre with its ruined Procenium; nor the beau¬ 
tiful Nymphaeum ; nor the Pecile , 600 feet long, with its 
double row of columns standing, nor the imperial Pa¬ 
lace, nor the old barracks of the Pretorian guards—nor 
the grand Serapeon of Canopus , nor the beautiful Vale 
of Tempk —nor the promenades of the poets and philo¬ 
sophers who used to loiter in their green shades. I will 
leave you in ignorance of them all. You cannot appre¬ 
ciate them unless you wander in “propria persona ” amid 
their haunted shades, with the dark cypress waving 
above you and the spirit of the Past whispering in your 
ear. 

Amid these ruins were found all the Egyptian anti¬ 
quities in the Roman Capitol—the beautiful Mosaic of 
Pliny’s Doves; and the Venus di Medici. The road from 
hence up to Tivoli (the ancient Tibur) is through the 
most venerable olive grove I have ever seen. Between 
its dark foliage you get a glimpse now and then of the 
Roman Campagna, stretching on toward the sea—to¬ 
ward the eternal city—and the Sabine Hills. 1 should 
like to run ou awhile about this ancient Tibur throned 
on its beautiful hill. Horace was accustomed to spend 
much of his time here, and wrote enthusiastically of its 
beauty. Not the broad Lacsedaemon, said he, nor the 
rich fields of Larissse strike me so much 


ff Quam domus Albunese resonantis, 

Et preceps Anio; et Tiburni lucus et uda 
Mobilibus pomaria rivis.” 

Here he would sit and compose his verses, and prayed 
that it might be the retreat of his old age. But a truce 
to Horace. I like him not and never did. His heartless 
lines ran in my head all the while I was on the track of 
his journey to Brundsuium, on which the lazy, volup¬ 
tuous sneerer lingered. He always appears to my imagi¬ 
nation like a little, thin, weasle-faced man, strutting 
slip-shod along, turning up his nose to mankind, and 
loving wine and women as much as the latter feared 
him. 

As I ascended the long hill toward the town, I 
thought more of the royal Zenobia than of all the em- 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


158 

perors and poets that ever lived here. As she stood and 
looked off on the same valley on which I was gazing— 
now so desolate—then so magnificent with temples and 
palaces, how often she sighed for her queenly Palmyra— 
the beauty of the desert. Her realm exchanged for the 
Tiburtine hill, and a throne for the irksome kindness of a 
haughty captor, was enough to break her queenly heart. 
But let us enter Tivoli, once the head-quarters of the 
Ghibelline chiefs, and afterward of Rienzi, in his expe¬ 
dition against Palestrina. It is a dirty, contemptible 
little city of 17,000 inhabitants. Its situation is highly 
picturesque, but its climate so unhealthy that the popular 
distich runs, 

“ Tivoli di raal conforto 

O, Piove, o tira vento, o suona a morto,” 

which perhaps might be rendered thus: 


“Oh, Tivoli! gmall comforts in thy climate dwell. 

Where blows the wind, or rains, or tolls the funeral knell.” 


The morals of the inhabitants may be gathered from 
the fact that in the year 1838, out a population of 17,000 
there were brought before the magistrate of the district 
1,500 cases of fights, in which 180 persons were danger¬ 
ously wounded, and 22 killed. 

The same ratio of crime in New York, putting the 
population at half a million, would give 45,000 fights 
during the year, 5,400 persons dangerously wounded, 
and 660 murders. At home this would be headed 
"Horrible state of public morals.” 

But 1 beg pardon: I came here to see its water-falls, 
the most beautiful with the exception of Terni in the 
south of Europe. However, the Tivolians deserve this 
exposure for the villanous dinner they gave me. I will 
not bore you with the description of the ruined villas and 
temples that attract the traveller to Tivoli. I will men¬ 
tion but one—the Temple of the Tiburtine Sybil , perched 
on a cliff overhanging the valley of the cascades. It is a 
circular temple surrounded with an open portico of 18 
columns, ten of whicn remain. Standing on that emi¬ 
nence, with its fine proportions and ancient classical 
look, it forms one of the most beautiful images I ever 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


150 


contemplated. As we emerged from the narrow path on 
to the platform of rock, which forms its base, we saw a 
table spread and an English company sitting around it, 
who had ordered their dinner to be brought to this 
picturesque spot.—There they sat eating under the sha¬ 
dow of the Temple of the Tiburtine Sybil , with the gulf 
beneath them, and the roar of the water-falls in their 
ears. English like:—they can eat any where. Standing 
on the edge of this cliff, the chief waterfall of the Anio is 
full in view a little to the left, on the other side of the 
gulf. Right out from the green hills it leaps 100 feet 
into the mass of verdure below. From the moment it 
starts it shows a belt of foam, and from the disordered 
rocks where it strikes, springs a rainbow, like a being of 
light, starting for the skies. The form of the hills—the 
deep verdure contrasting with the ruins around—the 
classic air hovering over all—combine to render it a spot 
of singular wildness and beauty. 

From this Sybilline Temple, a winding narrow path 
descends into the gulf and mounts the other side to the 
top of the waterfall. Adown this we descended, stop¬ 
ping at intervals to catch a glimpse of the foaming track 
of the “ Cascatella,” and hear the roar of its vexed 
waters. At length we reached the grotto of Neptune, a 
black cavern into which the cataract formerly emptied 
itself from the high wall of rock above it. The inunda¬ 
tion of 1826 changed the course of the river and now a 
dark wild stream alone hurries through it. From this 
deep gulf the view of the Sybilline Temple standing in 
its beautiful proportions high above—in the portico of 
which, looking down on us, were gathered a group of 
English ladies, twirling their bonnets in their hands, and 
looking as if they might be the ancient Sybils returned to 
their homes—the massive rocks around, and the singing 
of the water-falls in our ears, with the wizard-like 
names of the Syren’s and Neptune’s grotto, attached to 
the caverns over which we were leaning—combined to 
render it for the moment a scene of enchantment. 

The water before it takes its leap, passes through two 
artificial tunnels, cut side by side, through the solid rock, 
in which the English lady and myself awoke the echoes 
with our mirth. I do not know why it is, but I never 
get into a cavern or dark hideous hole without an irre¬ 
sistible impulse to halloo till all rings again. From this 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


1G0 

point we took donkeys and rode around the semicircular 
hill to get a view of the series of cascades unseen before ; 
that come springing one after another into sunlight right 
out from the bosom of the green foliage. As we passed 
along, first spray, like mist boiling up from the earth, 
would appear, hovering in the air—and then the laughing 
Iris bowing to the green banks beyond, and then the 
rapid shoot of the stream. It was a succession of sur¬ 
prises. 

Returning we fell in with the suite of a Venetian Prince 
that had haunted us ever since we left Naples—dining 
where we dined—sleeping where we slept, and by some 
strange fatality visiting galleries and ruins the same day 
we visited them. 

Speaking of the donkey ride reminds me that I have 
omitted a curious specimen of this mode of travelling 
which I witnessed this morning near the famous Plautian 
Tomb. On a little mouse-coloured donkey, a trifle 
larger than a Newfoundland dog, shaggy and meek, were 
mounted a burly man and his wife, both astraddle, with 
the woman before and the man behind. The docile little 
fellow went ambling along, picking up carefully his 
slender feet, and with his long ears flapping over his face 
looking as unconscious and innocent as a lamb. 

Truly yours. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY, 


16X 


XXXIII. 

An Improvisatrice. Ascent of St. Peter’s, 


Rome, April. 

Dear E.— I have just returned from hearing an Im¬ 
provisatrice. Bah !—what a world of disappointment. 
I had read Corinna till I expected to behold in an Italian 
Improvisatrice an embodied inspiration. She sung to a 
small audience in one of the rooms of the Theatre 
Argentina. An Urn was left at the door, in which every 
one, who wished, dropped on a bit of paper the subject 
he wished her to improvise. This Urn was to be handed 
to the Improvisatrice, from which she must draw, by 
chance, the number of topics she was to render into 
verse during the evening. I sat all on the “ qui vive? 
waiting her appearance, expecting to see enter a tall, 
queenly beauty, with the speaking lip and flashing eye 
uttering poetry even in their repose. I expected more, 
from the fact that these inspired birds are getting rare 
even in Italy, and this was the second opportunity there 
had been of hearing one during the entire year. Well, 
at last she came, a large, gross-looking woman, some¬ 
where between thirty-five and fifty years of age, and as 
plain as a pikestaff. She ascended the platform, some¬ 
what embarrassed, and sat down: the Urn was handed 
her, from which she drew seven or eight papers, and read 
the subjects written upon them. They were a motley 
mess enough to turn into poetry in the full tide of song. 
I looked at her somewhat staggered, and wished very 
much to ask her, if (as we say at home) she did not 
want to back out of the undertaking. However, she 
started off boldly and threw off verse after verse with 
astonishing rapidity. After she had finished she sat 
down, wiped the perspiration from her forehead, while 
a man, looking more like Bacchus than Cupid, brought 
her a cup of nectar in the shape of Coffee, which she 
L 


162 


TRAVELS IN ITALY, 


coolly sipped before the audience, and then read the next- 
topic and commenced again. Between each effort came 
the Coffee. Some of the subjects were unpoetical enough, 
and staggered her prodigiously. The « spavined dactyls 
■would not budge an inch, and she would stop—smite her 
forehead—go back—take a new start, and try to spur 
over the chasm with a boldness that half redeemed her 
failures; sometimes it required three or four distinct 
efforts before she could clear it. The large drops of 
moisture that oozed from her forehead, in the excitement, 
formed miniature rivulets down her cheeks, till I ex¬ 
claimed to myself, well there is perspiration there, 
whether there be ewspiration or not; and, after all, who 


can tell the difference. ,, , , 

I will do her the justice, however, to say that her 
powers of versification, in some instances, were almost 
miraculous. She would glide on withou t a pause, minding 
the difficulties of rhythm, rhyme and figures, no more 
than Apollo himself. Columbus was one of her subjects, 
and she burst forth, (I give the sentiment only,) Who 
is he, that, with pallid countenance and neglected beard, 
enters, sad and thoughtful, through the City’s gates. The 
crowd gaze on him as, travel-worn, he walks along, and 
ask, ‘Who is he?’—Christopher Colombo, is the answer. 
They turn aw£y, for ’tis an unknown name.” Then, 
with a sudden fling, she changed the measure, and 
standing on the bow of his boat, flag in hand, the boLd 
adventurer strikes the beach of a New World. The 
change from the slow, mournful strain she first pursued, 
to the triumphant bounding measure on which the boat 
of the bold Italian met the shore, was like an electric 
shock, and the house rung with “brava, brava.” But, 
alas! there was no Corinna there; I had rather heard 
the fair, proud-looking pianist that accompanied her. 

In the afternoon I drove with some friends to St. 
Peter’s for the purpose of mounting to the top. No one 
can ascend it without an order from the office of the 
Cardinal Secretary of State. This order is obtained by 
a paper from somebody else, I forget whom. This paper 
my friend had sent me, with the request to send and get 
the order. I put it in my pocket with the full determina¬ 
tion to do as he requested. But just as our carriage was 
driving up to the magnificent steps of St. Peter’s he 
asked if I had the order. X slowly pulled forth the paper 


TRAVELS IN ITALY* 


163 


from the spot where it had lain snugly for two or three 
days, and shook my head. “ Then we are done for it,” 
said he. I had no apology to make—there sat his lady, 
who had taken all this trouble for nothing. “ Never 
mind,” said he, “let us try what we can do without an 
order.” 

We went to the Sacristan who kept the door, and told 
him our case, and plead to have the regulation dispensed 
with, but he was inexorable. 1 asked him if he could 
bear to have us return to our own country, after having 
come so far, without ascending St. Peter’s. “ Mi fa 
mente ma non posso permitterlo. “ It is nothing to me, 
but I cannot allow it.” I then appealed to his gallantry, 
and made up a long story about the lady on my arm, 
** Mi rincresce moltissimo , signore , ma non 6 possibile .” 
u I am very sorry, sir, but I can’t help it,” was all j 
could get out of him. I then undertook to bribe him, 
but it was of no use. He was the first Italian door¬ 
keeper I had seen money would not buy. “Never 

mind,” said Mr.-■, “ I understand that some of these 

Sacristans keep permissions to sell.” Off he started, and 
in a few minutes returned with one that cost just 4 pauls 
—or two shillings. I handed it to the Sacristan, and 
said, “ There, will that do ?”—Oh, you would have 
shouted at the look of blank astonishment with which he 
regarded me. It was all right, signed and sealed as his 
Holiness directs, but said he, “ Did you not write it 
yourself?” “What!” said I, “ forge that seal ?” point¬ 
ing to the Cardinal’s signet. He shook his head—“ but 
where did you get it?” “St. Peter gave it to me,” I 
replied. (He opened his eyes still wider)—“ He did not 
wish me to leave his church without seeing its wonders.” 
u II Santo Pietro 6 pin generoso di le.” “ Pass on,” said 
the old man, with an ominous shake of the head, and we 
began to mount. The ascent to the top of the roof is so 
gradual that horses pass up and down with loads. On 
the roof the houses of the workmen scattered around look 
like a little village. 

The Dome is double and you ascend between the double 
walls. Every now and then a door lets you through to 
the inside, where there is a narrow path on which to 
walk, and gaze down—down on the pigmies that are 
crawling over the dim pavement below. The enormous 


164 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


statues are dwindled to a point, and the smoke of incense 
throws a haze like a summer atmosphere over the wealth 
of marble beneath. The concave of the Dome is 
wrought in Mosaic, representing virgins and saints, &c. 
From the pavement it seems to be the finest of work, 
while here the stones are large as the end of your thumb. 
The sentence in Mosaic, “ Tu es Petrus 4;c-> (Thou art 
Peter,) which is barely visible from below, is found to be 
composed of letters six feet long. An American Vandal 
had been here a few days before, and in order to carry 
away a memento of the Dome, had gouged out one ot 
the eyes of a saint with his jack-knife. 

I will not attempt to describe the view from the top. 
The Mediterranean, blue and dim, in the distance on the 
one side, the Albano, the Sabine and Volscian hills on the 
other; Rome, the Coliseum, Forum, the winding Tiber, 
palaces and Temples, immortal each with its history, and 
all grand and mighty with the Past, were too much for 
one glance. The mind became perfectly stupified with 
the crowd of images and emotions that overwhelmed it. 
Glorious old Rome, that “ coup d'ceil," has become a 
part of my existence. It is daguerreotyped on my heart 

for ever. 

Now for a chapter of statistics. I hate them, but in no 
other way can you get an idea of the size of St. Peter s. 

I will not give you feet and inches, but say that if 
Trinity Church is finished on the plan with which it was 
commenced you could pile about twelve of them into St. 
Peter's, and have considerable room left for walking 
about.—By taking off the steeples you could arrange two 
rows of them in the Church, three in a row, then clap on 
the steeples again under the Dome and they would reach 
a trifle more than half way to the top. You could 
put two churches like the Trinity under the Dome 
and have the entire nave of the Church, and both side 
aisles wholly unoccupied. Take three Astor Houses and 
place them lengthwise, and they would nearly extend the 
length of the inside of St. Peter’s—make a double row of 
them and they would fill it up half way to the roof pretty 
snug. Thirty or forty common churches could be stowed 
away in it without much trouble, and the four columns 
that support the Dome are each larger than an. ordinary 
dwelling house. But this is nothing—the marble—the 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. J05 

statuary—the costly tombs—the architecture—the art are 
indescribable. 

Truly yours. 


XXXIV. 

Artists’ Fete. 


Rome, April. 

Dear E.—To-day has been the great fete day of the 
Artists of Rome. I have endeavoured in vain to discover 
the origin or design of this oddest of all anniversaries in 
the imperial city. It is confined to no nation, but em¬ 
braces the artists of every land who wish to partake of 
its festivities and fooleries. For several days previous 
books are kept open at the Greek Cafe for those strangers 
who wish to enter their names as members on the occa¬ 
sion, and who receive in return a blue ribbon to wear as 
a badge during the festivities. The place of carousal is 
about ten miles from the city in the open Campagna. 
The location is as odd as the celebration that honours it. 
To be sheltered from the sun, if it be a bright Italian day, 
and to be protected from the wet, if it be a rainy one, 
they have selected the ancient Quarries of Rome for their 
festive hall. These Quarries are the interior of a slight 
eminence hollowed out into chambers and arches by the 
gradual excavations of former centuries. The dining-hall 
is an old forsaken ruin near by. At eight o’clock they 
meet from every part of the city in front of St. Maria 
Maggiore, to form their procession. First comes a cart 
and oxen, garlanded for the occasion, on which is throned 
the President, dressed like nothing you ever beheld, and 
after him the motley group of artists and their friends, to 
the amount of several hundred. Each has his costume, 
and one would think they had not studied the old paint¬ 
ings in vain. Such out of the way and yet often pic¬ 
turesque garbs could be found in no country but Italy— 
and then the animals they ride, some are horses, some 
mules, and some the smallest, most villanous looking 
donkeys Rome can furnish. 



TRAVELS IN ITALY; 


166; 

My friend and myself did not accompany the procession 
out, but walked up to view the baths of Dioclesian, and 
from them to the San Lorenzo gate, expecting to catch a 
return hack. Soon one came up, and I hailed the driver, 
asking him what he would demand to take us out to the 
fete. Just then it began to sprinkle*—the first few drops 
of a heavy shower. The fellow looked as if he thought 
he had caught us, and his management you may take as a 
perfect illustration of an Italian’s mode of making a bar¬ 
gain— with foreigners. He demanded just double of an 
extraordinary price, so I offered him half. No—he 
wouldn’t listen to it—and after some altercation I told 
him to drive on, I could do without him. He then fell 
a third, but I persisted in my first offer, and bade him go 
on. He drew up his reins aud started off. But just be¬ 
fore he turned an angle in the road which concealed him 
from view, he pulled up and hallooed to know if I would 
go for so much, naming a trifle less. I shook my head, 
and he vanished from sight. “ There,” said my friend, 
“we are nowin a pretty fix—raining like a storm, and no 
way of getting to the fete or to the city.” But I knew 
my man, and replied, “Do you suppose he has really 
gone ? In three minutes he will be back,” and true 
enough the next moment a pair of black horses trotted 
into view, and our friend pulled up where we stood to 
drive another bargain. He fell still more from his original 
price, and began to praise his vehicle and show us all its 
comforts, especially in a rain storm. 

I was vexed at the fellow’s impudence, and coolly ask¬ 
ed, “ Why have you returned ? I am not anxious at all 
to have your carriage ; you had better drive back to the 
city, or you will lose the opportunity of taking some one 
else.” He drew up his reins with all the hauteur of an 
old Roman, and cracking his whip drove away with an 
air that said, as plainly as actions could say it, “ Good 
day, sir—this is the last you will see of me.” After he 
had disappeared, my friend again began, “ There, now, 
you have done it. He has gone sure enough, and we may 
get out of the scrape as we can.” “ Not a bit of it,” 
said I. “ The difference in the price he offers to take and 
I offer to give is trifling, but don’t you see the rascal 
thinks to take advantage of our circumstances ? I will 
stand here under this old colonnade till night before I 
will give him one baiocca more than I have offered him*. 


TRAVELS IU ITALY, 


167 

**-!Besides, he will be back in a minute. It is true that 
last take off was very well done, but these fellows are 
used to acting. Such an offer as I made him he has not 
had to-day, and he is the last man to lose it. The next 
time he will return and tell us to get in.” I was right. 
In a few minutes the black team was in sight. The hau¬ 
teur of the Roman had vanished, and with a touch of the 
hat and a smile that would have made the fortune of an 
English valet, he bade our “ Excellencies” mount, hoping' 
we would remember and give him a “ buonomano .” 
“Not a bit of it,” said I, though I afterward did, of my 
own free will. But I would not have it in the contract. 

Such is universally an Italian’s mode of making a bar¬ 
gain. After driving five or six miles, we turned into the 
fields, through which, far before us, were slowly winding 
along trains of carriages, filled with the fun-loving Itali¬ 
ans. At length we came in sight of the spot consecrated 
by art—and such a sight. Did you ever see a “general 
training ” in the country. Then you have the first view 
of the “artists’ fete.” Scattered over the green field, 
were carriages filled with fair spectators, patches of 
strolling pedlars, carts detached and “ wine and cake 
to sell,” and all the strange and motley grouping of a 
Yankee “training ground.” All these were on the sum¬ 
mit of the eminence, underneath which were the quarries 
and the artists. As I approached, suddenly from out the 
bowels of the earth came a hurrah as wild and jolly as ever 
Bacchus, in the height of glory and greatness, made to 
ring through the home of the gods. The next moment I 
heard an earnest voice hurriedly inquire, “ Ganymede, 
Ganymede! where is Jupiter?” and then the Bac¬ 
chanalian song, “ lo BaccheV ’ Really I began to think 
there might be, after all, a batch of the old gods below, 
holding a sort of anniversary revel there, on the borders 
of their old dominions. I hastened down, and oh, such a 
spectacle! It is impossible to describe it. At one end of 
the caverns sat the presiding god. Around him were 
flags of every description and ornaments of no descrip¬ 
tion. He had on a necklace made, I should suppose, of a 
huge Bologna sausage, with pieces a foot and a half long, 
putting out at intervals all round it, at the end of each of 
which stood an imp striving with all his might to fill it 
with wind. At his side stood a drummer, that looked 


168 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


more like a griffin than a man, beating hurried and rapid 
beats upon his drum, while at every pause arose the 
chorus of some wild German song. Before him, in the 
dirt, were all sorts of divinities waltzing — two-thirds 
drunk. Round and round they would spin, ankle-deep, in 
the powdered clay, until they came on the broken rocks 
with a jar that made my bones ache even to see. Poor 
fellows, thought I to myself, you will have enough to do 
to-morrow to count your bruises. 

This is only a specimen of what was passing. There 
were other groups in various parts of the quarries, each 
with its peculiar scene. At length a company of Ger¬ 
mans determined to have a ghost scene, and German like, 
they went through all the cemomonies of raising a spirit. 
In one of the darkest parts of the quarries was deposited 
a body wrapped in a sheet. At the entrance stood a 
company of Germans and began one of their ghostly 
incantations. It was enough to chill one’s blood.— 
Slowly and solemnly the incantation rose and echoed 
through the cavern until the ghost was actually raised. 
There were many excellent singers among the German 
artists, and some of the chorusses were admirable. I never 
beheld a revel to which there was no limit, and no law in 
which there was such perfect abandonment as this. It 
seemed impossible that the human heart could so utterly 
throw off all restraint. Indeed it could hardly be called 
a revel—it was a frolic , a wild and lawless frolic. The 
animal spirits of each seemed at the evaporating point. 

In such reckless mirth, amid flowing wine and song and 
dance, the hours wore on, till the signal was given for 
the closing up scene, which was a general horse, donkey 
and mule race out upon the green sward. It was here 
that the figures and costumes showed to advantage. 
Thousands of people, some in carriages, some on foot, 
were scattered over the field. For a back ground, a 
black rain cloud lay along the horizon. The sunlight 
from the clear west falling brightly over the grassy plain, 
threw the figures on it in strong relief against that dark 
cloud in the distance, till every colour, ribbon and plume, 
was distinctly revealed. As the crowd gave way, and 
horseman after horseman galloped into view, it seemed 
more like a description I had read in some oriental 
tale, than an actual passing scene. Now ten or fif- 


TRAVELS IN ITALY, 


169 

fceen in a company, mounted without a saddle, would 
gallop like the wind over the plain, their velvet mantles 
and plumes streaming in the wind, and the spangles in 
their vests and bonnets flashing like diamonds in the 
sunlight. And half of them were such wild spiritual 
looking beings. They were none of your hearty re¬ 
vellers, bat had come out this once from the studio with 
all the marks of severe study and privation upon them, 
to be young and thoughtless for one day. Some of 
them were remarkably handsome fellows, with their long 
black hair and blacker eyes and thin pale faces and sin¬ 
gular costumes, they shot past you like beings of another 
planet. There were Americans among the rest, and I 
am sure if they could have dropped into their native 
towns at home just as they were mounted and dressed 
to-day, their friends would have clapped them in a lu¬ 
natic asylum “sans ceremonies The racing was a mere 
scamper. One bold rider on a powerful black steed, 
galloped round and round without end or aim, while in 
another direction three artists were mounted on one 
little donkey, not much larger than a Newfoundland 
dog, which they were trying to beat into a gallop. But 
the poor little fellow could hardly waddle under his 
enormous load, and seemed perfectly stupified at the 
sights and sounds around him. But the blows which 
fell thick and fast, were more natural and home-like, 
and seemed to restore his self-confidence, for the next 
moment he laid back his long ears, and with that villa- 
nous look a donkey alone can give, let fly his heels into 
the air, and over tumbled one of the sons of the divine 
art. 

While I was laughing at this ludicrous scene, a beggar 
girl that had often molested me in Rome, came up and began 
her importunities again. She was the most impudent 
creature I ever met, and I could not shake her off, when 
a man dressed like a king, rode slowly up on his donkey, 
and addressing the girl in the most grave, deliberate, 
and sol men tone, said, “ Andate via siete troppo importu - 
nenteS “ Go away, you are too importunate.” The 
girl looked at him a moment, and walked away without 
saying a word. I could hardly thank him for laughter, 
but he never smiled, and wheeled his donkey away with 
the gravity of a philosopher. But it is impossible to 





170 


TRAVELS IN ITALY* 


describe the different groups m this strangest of all fetes. 
An English lady whom I had often met m different 
narts of Italy, stood and looked on in perfect delight. 
She said she could not shake off the belief that she was 
in the midst of some Eastern romance. She was a 
beautiful sketcher, and in a few minutes the field and its 
grotesque groups were her own. How I envied her her 
possessions! At length the crowd, as all crowds must,, 
broke up. But a small party galloped on before, and 
ascending a green mound on which stood an old rum, 
wheeled and awaited the procession. In their pic¬ 
turesque garbs, beside that ancient ruin, and both re¬ 
vealed in the soft light of the setting sun, they formed a 

strange and beautiful group. 

But soon the towers and obelisks of old Rome rose oil 
the view, and I seemed to stand rebuked in their presence. 
I thought how these orgies had been celebrated over the 
grave of a fallen empire. I was told that Thorswalden 
a few years ago joined with them, and shook his gray 
locks with the merriest. 

Truly yours. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


171 


XXXV. 

Sirocco. Mosaic Centre-Table. Borghesian Villa. Tasso’s Oak, Fare¬ 
well to St. Peter's, &c. 

May, 1843. 

Dear E.— I fear you are becoming tired of Rome, 
though one never wearies of writing about it. Each hour 
here would make a letter, but not to task your patience 
farther, I will give you a single chapter out of my diary, 
and then we will away for Florence and the green, free, 
open country. 

Saturday 1( )th. —Just returned from Villa Pamphylia, 
revived and almost cheerful. For three days a terrible 
sirocco has been blowing that has taken the very life out 
of me. The first day I grew weak ; the second, hot and 
feverish, and took to my bed, and concluded a Roman 
fever was my destiny. But this morning the wind 
changed to the north, and the dirty sky looked clear 
again. A little revived, I called a carriage, and drove 
out to the Villa Pamphylia. Leaving the driver and his 
horses under the shadow of a clump of trees, I strolled 
away from the magnificent gardens into the open field, 
and lying down under a lofty fir-tree, and looking off to¬ 
wards the mouth of the Tiber and distant Ostia, drank in 
the fresh air till my blood grew cool again. Those 
grounds, how extensive and beautiful they are, with their 
promenades, and canals, and waterfalls, and fountain’s 
and flowers and statues! 

Sunday , 1 \th. —Just returned from Vespers in St. 
Peter’s. How I love to linger under those great arches, 
while the shades of twilight deepen on the statues and 
figures around ; and hear the Vesper hymn steal out of 
the distant chapel, and float over this wondrous temple. 

And that strange Pilgrim—how he arrested my atten¬ 
tion. From the far off hills he had wandered there for once 
in his life, to worship. Amazed at the magnificence 
around him, he forgot his rags, that contrasted so strik¬ 
ingly with those costly ornaments, and leaned on his pil- 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


172 

grim staff—the blanket on which he had slept in his pil¬ 
grimage, beneath his arm—and gazed like one in a trance, 
around him. The lofty nave—the images of Prophets and 
Apostles, that leaned over him—the dim religious light; 
and that now dying, now triumphant music, was too 
much for him, and he bowed his head and wept. Drop 
after drop, the big tears fell on the tesselated pavement, 
and his swelling heart seemed ready to burst under the 
tide of emotions that pressed on it. Farewell, Pilgrim— 
we shall never meet again. 

Monday niyht, 12 th. —I have just returned from a social 
party at the house of an English officer—La Strada delle 
tre Fontane (the street of the three fountains). I met 
there an Italian noble I had often seen in the north of 
Italy. He was an officer in the army of his Sardinian 
Majesty. Poor fellow! he had fallen in love with an 
English lady in Genoa, and had come down to get a 
dispensation from the Pope that he might marry her. It 
was slow work, but he thought he should succeed. 

Tuesday , 12 th. —Accompanied Mrs. - to see the 

top of a Mosaic centre-table. What a transcendently 
beautiful thing! It was finer work than I ever saw in a 
breast-pin at home. It needed the closest inspection to 
detect it was not a painting. The man had been 
four years in finishing it, and had just received an 
order for it from a Russian Princess, who was to give 
him £800. It represented Rome in four different aspects, 
the scenes going round the outer edge of the table. First, 
the “ Piazza del Popolo ,” by sunrise, with its gate and 
obelisk; second, St. Peter’s, with its glorious colonnade, 
obelisk and fountains, under the blaze of a bright noon¬ 
day ; next came the Forum, the Capitol, the ruined 
Palace of the Caesars, and the lonely columns standing 
around this focus of old Roman glory, bathed in the soft 
light of the setting sun; last of all the Coliseum by 
moonlight, and a more perfect moon I never saw painted. 
It had beside an elaborately wrought centre piece. I 
never broke the commandment “ Thou shalt not covet” 
so much in a half an hour in my life as during the time I 
was inspecting this table. The artist was an intelligent 
and pleasant man, and gave me some of the composition 
by which mosaic work is made, and explained the whole 
process, but I have forgotten it already. At sunset I 
strolled around the Pincian Hill, that overlooks Rome and 



TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


173 


the Tiber. It is a beautiful promenade, filled with trees, 
statues, &c.; but, alas! as I was passing near where 
some repairs were making, I saw thirty prisoners chained 
two and two, guarded by soldiery, and sullenly perform¬ 
ing their alloted toil. 

In the evening, after tea, our good professor, who 
never fails in his daily lessons, started up and said, 
“This is the night of the Feast of the Sepulchres, 
would you like to see the ceremony ?” In a moment we 
were off*. We entered church after church, in each of 
which the ceremony was different, but each representing 
Christ in the Sepulchre. The churches were dark with 
the exception of a few lights around the place of supposed 
burial. At length we entered one in a side chapel of 
which lay a wax figure, large as life, representing our 
Saviour in the rigidness of death. The hair lay matted 
on his forehead—the blood was flowing over his agony- 
wrung brow, and his limbs composed in the decency of 
death. Close by his figure, kneeled two monks—their 
faces buried in their hands, and uttering not a sound. 
Away from the recess back in the darkness, were the 
silent figures of men and women kneeling amid the 
marble columns of the church; that grew dimmer and 
dimmer as they retired in the gloom. That bloody, 
murdered form—those cowled and silent monks kneeling 
over it—the deep hush and darkness amid so many forms, 
was too much for my nerves. I pushed open the door 
and rushed into the open air, drew a long breath while 
a fearful pressure seemed to lift from my heart. Well, ’tis 
a strange world, and the “ lights and shadows of a human 
soul,” who can write ! 

Wednesday, 13 th .—Rode all over the grounds of the 
Borghesian villa. This is to Rome what Hyde Park is to 
London, and towards evening there is an incessant whirl 
of carriages around its groves of ilex and laurel, and 
through its long avenues of cypresses, and past its flashing 
fountains and delicate temples, and rows of statuary. 
These grounds are three miles round, threaded in every 
possible direction with roads. At the farther side is the 
palace filled with beautiful statuary. In one room is 
Canova’s famous reclining Venus, for which Pauline, the 
beautiful sister of Bonaparte, sat. There is a story in Rome 
that a lady once asked Pauline if she did not feel a little 
uncomfortable in sitting before Canova for her statue (al» 


174 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


lading to the indelicacy of being disrobed before the artist), 
and she pretending to understand her as referring to her 
feeling somewhat cold in such a predicament, answered, 
<e Oh no, the room was very warm.” (This Borghese 
married one of the daughters of the famous English 
Catholic Earl of Shrewsbury.) The statue is beautiful— 
so was Pauline, who is said to have had but one defective 
feature, and that her ears. They were so small as to be 
almost a deformity. 

Saturday, 16 th .—I skip over two days. This morning 
I received a note from an American gentleman inviting 
me to accompany him and his two sisters to the Pope’s 
palace on the Quirinal. I was at the reading-room when 
they started, and as the carriage drove up the wheels 
came somewhat near to a peppery, half-crazy English 
cavalry officer. He began to swear and curse the driver, 
when I, somewhat piqued at his impudence in the pre¬ 
sence of the ladies, stept in and told the driver to move 
on. The officer immediately tipped his hat to me and 
apologised, and said in the blandest manner, “ Mr. H. 
(calling me by name,) I believe your book is not in this 
library,” (referring to the one attached to the reading- 
room). How the fellow knew my name puzzled me, 
and the question and all taking me quite aback, I re¬ 
plied, What did you say, sir? “ Are you not from New 
Orleans, and have you not written a work ?” I have 
not the pleisure of hailing from New Orleans, I replied, 
nor have I been guilty of writing a book. 

We strolled all over the great palace—into the very 
sanctum sanctorum of his Holiness. * * 

Ttie garden is a mile in circumference, and filled with 
flowers, and birds, and plants of every description. There 
is one fountain that plays an oryan, (when it plays at all), 
and little statues standing in niches around the grotto in 
which the organ is placed, lift, at the same time, instru¬ 
ments to their lips, and chaunt an accompaniment. The 
chief gardener is an Irishman, and Pat is the same prac¬ 
tical joker, wherever you find him. Even living in the 
shadow of the palace of his Holiness, cannot knock the 
fun out of him: and there was so much of the “ lurking 
devil” in this fellow’s eye, that I watched every move¬ 
ment, lest he should play us a trick—for every now 
and then, he would disappear in the thick foliage, and 
thejiext moment from some unexpected quarter would. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


175 

issue jets of water, crossing each other in all directions, 
and making an arch over our heads as we passed. There 
was a group of some half-dozen Priests, just before us, 
who had come from the country to attend the ceremonies 
of Holy Week in Rome. They were visiting the garden 
of their Spiritual Head, and stared about them in undis¬ 
guised astonishment. At length they got tangled in 
with our party, and, as we were passing up a walk 
hedged closely in, I saw Pat slip slily away amid the 
foliage. Expecting some mischief on hand, I halted and 
fell a little back, bidding my friends do the same. In a 
moment the walk spread out into a circular form, and 
the long black-robed Priests scattered themselves over 
it; when suddenly, right out of the gravelled path, 
sprang a group of jets, perfectly deluging the poor 
Priests. They suddenly stopped like chickens when the 
shadow of a hawk darkens over them, and then scam¬ 
pered off, as Pat said, “ as if the Divil was after them.” 
Dripping with water, and shaking their broad-brimmed 
beavers, they presented a most sorry spectacle. * * 
Tuesday , 24 th .—Walked all over the ruins in the re¬ 
gion of the Forum and Caracalla’s Baths. This is the 
only way to see and feel them. I never would ride 
again here. Oh! how sad to muse amid these fragments 
of a shivered world, with nought to disturb you but the 
chirp of the cricket, or the sigh of the passing wind as it 
stirs the ivy that dangles from some mouldering wall. 
There they are in the bright sunshine, men spinning ropes 
in the old Roman Forum, or singing with Italian care¬ 
lessness under the shadow of that lofty, solitary column, 
that stands like a tomb-stone over the grave of an em¬ 
pire. How those peasantry stared at me as I stood, 
like one bewildered, under the great arches that sup¬ 
ported the Palace of the Caesars, gazing on the cattle 
stabled there, and on the thoughtless owners pitching 
hay into apartments right under the very throne of Rome. 
The sentence of Gibbon came like a mournful echo to 
me—“and the barbarian has long since stabled his steed 
in the Palace of the Caesars.”—1 strolled on to the old 
Circus Maximus, where the rape of the Sabines was com¬ 
mitted. It is a garden, and an old man was carting 
manure into it. I thought I would see how much he would 
know of that field of fame, so I inquired if that was the 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


176 

Circus Maximus. He looked at me as if he thought I 
was an ignoramus, and replied, “ No, signore, it is a 
garden .” And this is glory! * * 

At evening we drove to the convent San Onifrio, or 
rather to the foot of the hill on which it stands. After 
knocking for nearly a quarter of an hour at the gate we 
gained admittance. Here Tasso died. An oak stands 
near, called Tasso’s oak. He came to Rome to be 
crowned, and was taken sick. He retired to this con¬ 
vent, which overlooks entire Rome and from its elevation 
has a pure air, to recover his health. Under this oak he 
used to sit and gaze down on the imperial city in its 
glory, which was weaving a crown—for his grave. The 
oak has been broken down by a storm, but the stump still 
remains. I plucked some of the splinters to bring away 
as a memorial. I was in the room where he died. A 
cast was taken of him after death, which is preserved 
with great care; and near by in a glass case hangs the 
last letter the poet ever wrote. While 1 am writing the 
daughter of the man who owns my rooms has answered 
the bell and wishes to know what I want. It is some¬ 
what chilly and I request a little fire. In order to kindle 
it she picks up my splinters from Tasso’s oak. I spoke 
out so sharply that she turned her large eyes on me in 
wonder. Why, said I, those are from Tasso’s oak—I 
would not take 50 scudi for them—I am going to take 
them to America. She clapped her hands and laughed 
till all rung again. She took it for a good joke and pro¬ 
ceeded to lay them on the fire. I remonstrated so 
earnestly that she felt I must be in earnest, and asked 
with the most perfect naivete, “ What, have you no such 
wood in America?” Oh Tasso, such again is glory! 

Saturday , 28 th. —Saturday again. I have, these last' 
few days, strolled over the city—made a few calls and 
wrote a few letters. I have seen Pompey’s Statue, 
“ which all the while ran blood” when great Caesar fell 
at its base. I have wandered over the “ Jews’ Quarter,” 
where the old clothes hang in masses along the streets. 
Every night at eight o’clock they are locked up in the 
two streets they occupy. Palaces, Studios, and Paintings 
have come in for their share. What a beautiful young 
Bacchus I saw in Thorswalden’s Studio. The drunken 
God could be seen, in the baby sleeping amid the rich 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


177 

clusters of grapes. A note is on my table from Dr. 
D—-y of New York. He knows not what pleasure his 
last conversation gave me. 

Sunday, 29 th. —To-morrow, I expect to start for 
Florence, and have been this evening to bid St. Peter’s 
good bye. It is strange how affection will grow on one, 
for a mere pile of stone and brick ; but I have really and 
for ever fallen in love with this glorious old Temple. I 
did not feel sadder when the setting sun went down over 
the lessening shore of my father-land, than to-night when 
I knew I must behold St. Peter’s no more. I strolled 
around—now across the nave—now up and down the 
aisles, and away into the transept, looking at nothing in 
particular, but letting the impression of the whole fall 
like a mighty shadow on my heart. The smoke of in¬ 
cense spread like a mist over the teselated pavement, and 
the pealing organ now swelled out through the ampli¬ 
tude in triumphant bursts of music, and now died away 
in mournful cadences through the dim arches, while the 
chaunt of priests arose and fell in strange echoes on the air. 
Far, far away up through the heaven-seeking dome stole 
the rays of the setting sun, as if he wished his last look 
to be in this great Temple. One by one, the crowd de¬ 
parted, till I was almost alone amid the forest of marble. 
Every statue became a spiritual being worshipping 
silently there—every shadow the passing of the Invisible 
One. My heart beat audibly in my bosom, and I could 
have knelt before the silent altar and wept. The spirit 
of the Eternal seemed to have breathed on his Temple. 
The silence and solitude at length became painful, and I 
turned towards the door. There I gave the last fare¬ 
well look. The great columns stood dim and stately in 
the gathering gloom, while the lofty arches were lost in 
the darkness. Far away burned the feeble tapers before 
the high altar, while the shadow of a monk now and 
then gliding before them in this silent duty, added to the 
mystery of the scene. 

Farewell, great Temple; thou hast taught my heart a 
lesson it will never forget, and as I dive into the living 
stream of men again, thy shadow shall ever be on the 
water. Thy heart-breaking Miserere and thy sweet 
Vesper Hymns shall never lose their echo ; thy mighty 
dome and magnificent proportions, and thy perfect form 
M 


178 


TRAVELS in ITALY. 


lighted by its thousands of torches standing like a fairy 
creation amid the deep night, I carry with & c 


XXXVI. 

Out of Rome. An English Captain. 


Terni, May. 

Dear E.—We are out of Rome, and I will not trouble 
you with our long quarrels with V etturini before we got 
off. For several successive days, an English gentleman 
and myself went to the Post House to get a carriage and 
horses, to be posted on to Florence ; but Rome was empty¬ 
ing itself, and all had been engaged days before hand, bo 
we finally struck up a bargain with a Vetturmo to carry 
us through with one team. 

We started with rather a bad omen. I was up before 
it was daylight, and stepping into a narrow street for 
the purpose of crossing to the lodgings of my English 
friend, encountered four men bearing, noiselessly and 

rapidly along, a corpse. , „ _• j i -n 

But imagine us finally standing at the Piazza del Po- 

polo, while the officers examine our passports to see if 
all is right. (By the way, how odd it is, that one must 
fortify himself with any quantity of signatures, and quar¬ 
rel his way into a city, then encounter the same trouble 
in getting out of it.) But, as I was about to say, picture 
to yourself a vehicle, built somewhat like a ha.ck, except 
that it has a calash top over the driver’s seat in addition* 
to the main covering—painted pale green, with a gold- 
leaf grape-vine running around it for a border, and four 
fat lazy horses attached to it, and you have our ‘‘esta¬ 
blishment.” It was finely cushioned, however, and rode 

easier than any hack. . .. 

As we trotted away from the walls of the eternal city r 
an indescribable sadness stole over me. It seemed like 
leaving the grave-yard of all that was great on earth. 
There the heart of the world once beat till the farthest 
extremities felt the mighty pulsations. The gieatest and 



TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


179 


fiercest souls earth ever nurtured had stormed and died 
there. There man had wrought with highest pride, and 
skill, and force; and there now were only his greatest 
ruins. Oh what a bitter mockery that fallen empire, its 
broken thrones, and faded glories uttered on man and 
man’s ambition. And yet there was as much of pity as 
sarcasm in their silent language. Ambition with thy 
heated blood, and wild fever tossings, and cursed devas¬ 
tations, and bloated pride; come look on thy greatest, 
most perfect work! 

As I was indulging in this train of bitter reflection, I 
looked up, and lo, there stood before me a small house 
perfectly buried in grape-vines, and hedges, and flowers; 
and on it painted in large capitals, “ Parva Domus Sed 
magna Quies.” The singularity of the inscription, and 
the sweet little nest on which it was written, took me 
■wholly by surprise, and captivated me at once. “ A small 
house but great repose”—then thou art worth all Rome— 
aye, and the world to boot. “ Magna Quies\ I wished 
I had the house ! Rest—repose—Oh, that is heaven to 
the endless chase and disappointments of life! I looked 
again on the little paradise. Bah! it was written there 
to make it rent well. Fleas and filth 1 who ever found rest 
in an Italian house unless he had the hide of a shark? 

Ascending a long hill, twelve or fourteen miles from 
Rome, I paused, and turning toward the city, now dim 
in the smoky distance, bade it a long, last farewell. 

“ There she stands. 

Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe. 

An empty urn within her withered hands 
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago.” 

Stopping to breakfast, about 12 o’clock, at a small inn, 
I wandered off in the fields. On returning, who should 
I encounter but my old peppery English officer, who once 
took me for an author and from New Orleans. He was 
foaming and swearing away at his Vetturino. As soon 
as he saw me he poured forth a perfect volley of invec¬ 
tives against the Italians. His horses had broke down, 
beside having proved balky. He would not go another 
inch — he would return to Rome immediately — then 
crashed one of John Bull’s sturdy oaths. I had cherished 
a little grudge against the sputtering old egotist, and I 
confess took a wicked pleasure in his trouble—nay, added 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


180 

to it. I told him the same carriage and horses had been 
offered to me but I durst not trust the concern, and added, 
the owner proposed to take me for fifty scudi, but I 
would not have it on any terms. (This was literally 
true.) Fifty scudi! exclained he; I give eighty-five . 
Seeming to grow warm myself at the enormity of the 
deception, I replied, eighty-five scudi! Why, my dear sir, 
you are robbed—shamefully robbed, and, then if you 
should never get to Florence with that team. “ I know 
it,” said he, “ I will go back to Rome immediately.” 
But, I replied, there is one difficulty in the way : as you 
have made a bargain, the authorities will doubtless com¬ 
pel you to fulfil it, especially as the fellow promises to 
take you on without delay. I am sorry—but—really, 
my dear sir, I am afraid there is no help. The Captain 
now stood at boiling heat, and the poor Vetturino fairly 
shook with terror “Come,” said the Captain, “come 
tell my wife and daughter how they offered you this 
same ricketty concern, when they knew it would break 
down. Come, come on,” said he. I did not exactly like 
the prospect before me, but made the best of it and fol¬ 
lowed on. 

Judge of my astonishment, on entering the room, to see 
a fair young sweet English face, that had often arrested 
my attention in the streets of Rome, the owner of which I 
never dreamed of being the daughter of my sputtering 
Captain. She was an authoress of some fame, and a 
novelist to boot. The first thought that struck me was— 
—“ How extremely odd, and what a misfortune if she 
should turn back. What a bit of sunlight she would be 
on the road during the six days’ journey before us. To 
see her at the lonely hotels we shall stop at, and amid the 
glorious scenery we shall gaze on, would ba no slight 
addition to the pleasure of the journey.” The Captain 
immediately started off on his furious gallop, repeating 
what I had said before. At the first pause the little 
beauty remarked, “ Yes, we must return I think as soon 
as we have breakfasted.” This was tipping over my castle 
in the air in a moment, and how to counteract what I 
had told the Captain seemed not so plain. 1 could have 
bitten off my tongue with vexation. However, I deter¬ 
mined to put a bold face on it, and replied, “ By no 
means; I think you have a remarkably excellent car¬ 
riage —it is light and easy, while ours is a huge lumbering 


TBAVELS IN ITALY. 


181 


affair.” “Oh, the carriage is well enough,” said she, 
“but the horses are such dreadfully poor creatures, I am 
sure they will die before they get to Florence.” “ Not at 
all, not at all—I can assure you; these lean Cassius 
looking horses are the best to get over the ground—your 
fat Italian animals are perfect oxen on the road ; beside 
there is nothing better in Rome now—all are ‘ en route .’ 
Moreover, we will make the Vetturino change the horse 
that gave out, and continue to do so as often as one fails.” 
The Captain seemed unable to comprehend the sudden 
change in my views, and stood and stared at me in a per¬ 
fect puzzle. He could not understand the difference be¬ 
tween the prospect of having a Captain Brimstone for a 
companion on the way, and a young, beautiful English 
woman. Just then a happy thought came to my aid. It 
occurred to me that the Captain had raved so on the way, 
that the poor apologies for horses had been urged to their 
utmost powers by the frightened Vetturino, and I in¬ 
quired how long they had been in driving from Rome. It 
was as I supposed; they had come like distraction.— 
“ Why,” said I, “ you have come it in an hour and a half 
less time than we. Why you will trot right away from 
us. This idea tickled the Captain amazingly ; he rubbed 
his hands, chuckled, and turning to his daughter, said, 
“ Don’t you see, my dear, we have beat them an hour and 
a half. I think we can venture to go on.” We made the 
Vetturino change one of his horses, and all was soon 
settled. 

You may smile at this episode, but it is one of those 
things that make up a traveller’s existence, and interest 
him perhaps deeper than more important matters. The 
first night I had a quarrel with our Vetturino from prin¬ 
ciple. Paying for our lodgings himself, I knew that he, 
like all his fraternity, would cheat us if he could. A 
terrible fuss the first night, as if you expected vastly more 
than anybody could give, and was one of the most queru¬ 
lous of the fretful species, is indispensable to secure 
decent treatment on the way. I will not weary you with 
our slow desolate ride through Etruria. Take one hut as 
a specimen of many. It stood by the roadside, in the open 
ground that stretched away as far as the eye could reach, 
without enclosures, aud without cultivation—built of a 
sort of weed that grows wild in that section, and which 


182 


TRAVELS IN ITALY* 


has the appearance of small brushwood. I entered it, 
and there, on the bare ground, sat a mother with several 
children. A pot was boiling in the centre, with some 
vegetables in it. The fire frightened me in the midst of 
so much combustible matter. I spoke to the mother, and 
inquired about her circumstances, and added, “ Are you 
not afraid of that fire ? What would you do if this 
tinder-box in which you live should catch fire?” She 
clasped her hands, turned her black eyes toward heaven, 
and laughing outright, exclaimed, “ God help us then.” 
I do not believe an Italian woman ever prayed without a 
laugh in one corner of her mouth. 

I thought I would describe, but cannot, the approach 
to picturesque Civita Castellana—the wonderful ravine 
that passes it, with the huts of washer-women dwindled 
down to a point at the bottom—the beautiful valley of 
the Tiber which we dropped into beyond, where Mac¬ 
donald, in the retreat of the French army from Italy, cut 
his way through the Neapolitan ranks, though they out¬ 
numbered him three to one—a valley then filled with 
the smoke of battle, but now the sweetest, loveliest spot, 
that ever smiled in the sunshine. Here the artists from 
Home flock in the summer, and dream away its oppressive 
heat in this Elysian field. I wished also to take you 
along the vale of the Nar, with its milk-white flood, and 
hermitages perched on the rocks, like eagles’ nests—and 
bid you listen to the chattering of one of the most ignor¬ 
ant monks I ever conversed with; but I must hasten on. 

At Narni was a celebration in honour of St. John, and 
such a collection of queer costumes you never beheld. 
The streets were strewn with evergreens; and proces¬ 
sions were formed, headed with a wooden cross, some 
fifteen feet high, while in the Churches were drums, and 
trumpets, and armed men. But this, too, I must pass by, 
and a queer adventure that befel me here, and ask you 
only to accompany me while the carriage is left to meet 
ns some three miles ahead, to the Gulf where stands the 
ruinous arches of the “ Bridge of Augustus .” This 
Bridge, built by the Emperor, connects two hills, and has 
three arches more than sixty feet high, built of blocks of 
marble, without cement or cramps of any description to 
fasten them. The middle arch is broken, and beneath it 
rushes the torrent as it rushed when strode the Emperor 
of the world over. It is a noble ruin, and through tha 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 183 

arch a distant hermitage among the rocks looked pic¬ 
turesque enough. 

Truly yours. 


XXXVII. 

Falls of Terni. 


Tebni, May. 

Dear E.—We reached here about three o’clock this 
afternoon, and immediately hired another carriage and 
started for the “ Falls of Terni” You can visit them in 
two ways—by beginning at the bottom, and walking to 
the top, or riding up a mountain by a recently made road, 
a mile or two, and descending to the bottom. Our guide 
and driver thought of course it would be far better to be¬ 
gin at the bottom, for more than “ eighteen reasons,’’ but 
especially as it would save driving us some two or three 
miles up a steep, narrow, and winding way. But let me 
advise the traveller in the first place always to ride to the 
top, and send his carriage back. In the second place, to 
fill his pocket with coppers, and as soon as he sees a beg¬ 
gar approach, or a man picking up stones out of the path, 
or even standing still, to hurl one at them. A shilling or 
two spent in this way is a clear gain, to one who wishes 
to enjoy the scenery; otherwise he will have every fine 
emotion dissipated, and his very soul tormented into mad¬ 
ness, by the incessant cry of “ Signore, un baiocca—per 
carita—mi miserabile ,” et cetera. My small stock was 
soon exhausted, and the moment I stopped amid the roar 
of the cataract, to listen to its great anthem, or look on 
its torn waters, I was besieged by some half dozen raga¬ 
muffins, till I had no resource but run for it. They al¬ 
ways take it for granted you lie when you tell them you 
have no more small change. I will not attempt to de¬ 
scribe these Falls. I will say only that the upper Fall is 
about fifty feet high, the second between six-hundred and 
seven hundred, and the long sheet of foam which forms 
the third two hundred and seventy feet, making in all 



184 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


about one thousand feet—and then refer you to Byron’s 
description, beginning— 

“ The roar of waters !—from the headlong height 
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice; 

The fall of waters! rapid as theiight 

The flashing mass foams, shaking the abyss; 

The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss. 

And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 

That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set.” 

I will merely add by way of comment that this descrip** 
tion is stretched a little. I will say, however, in justice 
to Byron, that I have ever found Childe Harold’s descrip¬ 
tions faithful almost to the letter, except in this single 
instance; and here I excuse him, on the ground that he 
had never seen any large cataracts, and hence was natu¬ 
rally impressed beyond measure with the sublimity of 
this really fine water-fall. But the “ infant sea” he 
speaks of I could throw my hat across, and “ the eter¬ 
nity” he thinks he sees “rushing on” is the smallest 
probably most men will ever experience. 

Yet the cataract is worth a visit. The rapid shoot of 
the waters at the summit—the long reckless leap of the 
torrent that is dashed into the minutest particles of foam 
at the bottom, which go rising up like smoke over the face 
of the rock—the dizzy height—the roar and the solitude, 
impress the mind with awe and wonder; and then the 
hidden and mysterious paths that lead to the bottom— 
now burying you in the side of the hill, and now carrying 
you to the very brink of some precipice, whose forehead 
is bathed in the falling spray, keep you in a state of 
constant excitement. 

The finest view, however, is from a rock on the oppo¬ 
site mountain. From this point you look directly on the 
face of the cataract, and take in the whole at a glance. 
In gazing on this water-fall I was struck with the power 
of a poetic imagination to impersonate everything. By¬ 
ron savs— 

«r 


u While the sweet 

Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet,” &c. 

And sure enough, there it is—the “ sweat of their great 


TRAVELS IN ITALY, 


183 


agony.” The spray, condensing on the black sides of the 
rocks, trickles down as if pressed out of them by their 
torment, under the eternal shock of the falling cataract 
upon them. As I stood gazing at this mad stream, break¬ 
ing itself into a thousand fragments in its desperate leap, 
a thunder-cloud slowly threw fold after fold over the 
dwarf firs that fringed the top, till the heavy masses 
seemed fairly to press their dark bosom on the summit of 
the hill—while the roar of the blast, and the low growl 
of the distant thunder, mingling with the roar of the 
cataract, made it a scene of wild sublimity. I had missed 
the “ Iris,” but I was repaid by the storm. The day 
seemed changing into night, and 1 at length turned away 
to find some place of shelter before the cloud should burst 
over me. Descending, I met my peppery Captain and his 
sweet daughter. I had no particular solicitude about the 
Captain’s skin, but I was anxious to save the little beauty 
from the shower I knew would soon be upon us. I be¬ 
sought her to return, assuring her she would be drenched 
if she proceeded. “What,” said she, in a voice like a 
bird, “ is not that point of rock I just saw you sitting 
upon the best spot from which to view the cataract 
Undoubtedly, madam ; but if you attempt to reach it you 
will certainly be overtaken by the storm. “ But I must 
see it,” she replied. I urged her in vain to desist, and 
was on the point of offering my services, when wisely 
considering it would not improve my personal appearanee 
to get a thorough drenching, nor make the rain any the 
less heavy on her, I concluded to let the wilful little 
creature take her soaking alone. 

I had scarcely reached our carriage before the rain came 
down in solid masses. I took shelter in a curious looking 
hole, tenanted by an old hag, whose company was almost 
as bad as the thunder-storm. I stood and looked out on 
the driving rain, and shrugged my shoulders as I thought 
of my English Hotspur and his wife and daughter. At 
length, tired of waiting the motion of the storm, I hired 
a half of an umbrella for two pauls, and started off, and 
such a wild-cat ride I never took before. The driver 
whipped his horses into a dead run till the carriage spun 
like a top. 

After we had fairly got home and down to our tea, the 
Captain and his family arrived. He was cool as a cucum¬ 
ber, while the young authoress, drenched to the skin. 


18 G 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


crept demurely along, looking the very picture of desola¬ 
tion. Tn a few minutes, however, the Captain’s blood 
was again up, and he came in sputtering away about 
fevers, and agues, et cetera, that he feared would follow 
this exposure. You must know an Italian is nervously 
afraid of getting wet, as in this climate it induces fever. 

So ends my trip to Tenii and the Cataract of Velino. 
It is singular that Terni and Tivoli, two of the finest 
waterfalls in Europe should, both be artificial. The 
Homans made this cascade by turning the waters of the 
Velinus from their original course, over this precipice. 
In this way they drained the rich plains of Rieti. It has 
been changed and modified much since, according as the 
inundations of the valley demanded it. 

Truly yours. 


XXXVIII. 

Perugia. Clltumnus. Battle-Field of Thrasymene. 

Dear E.— I have been five days on the road from 
Rome to this place, and designed to give you a letter 
filled with the occurrences of each day; but I will crowd 
the five into one letter, and by this process endeavour to 
give you the cream of the whole. Spoleto, with its 
ruined aqueducts and ancient gate, called the gate of 
Hannibal, I must pass over, and hurry away to Foligno, 
just biding you stop a moment—and you must be very 
careful or you will pass it unnoticed—to see the tiny 
temple mentioned by Pliny, and dedicated in olden time 
to the river god, Clitumnus. Childe Harold is the best 
guide-book for this region, and Byron stopped here and 
sung— 

" Rat thou, Clitumnus : in thy sweetest wave 
Of the most living crystal that was e’er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbo where nothing hid them,” &c. 

And again 

" And on thy happy shore a Temple still 
Of small and delicate proportions,” &c. 



TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


187 

But you can read for yourself. At Foligno we staid 
all night and a gloomy one it was. The rain had poured 
all day, and the streets were muddy and lonely, while on 
every gloomy church was painted a death’s head and 
cross bones. With the uprising sun we were off, and the 
clear air of the open country quickly effaced the memory 
of the dirty town. 

Assisi sits on the slope of a hill, about a mile and a half 
from the road, one of the most picturesque towns in 
Italy. Its long rows of aqueducts, stretching from 
mountain to mountain—its lofty commanding citadel, and 
its old battlements and towers encompassing it around, 
combine to render it a striking object as it lies along the 
height. Dante gives a most beautiful description of it, 
beginning— 

" Intra Tupino e l’acqua, che discende 

Dal colle eletto dal beato Ubaldo,” Ac., Ac. 

Perugia comes next in the catalogue, situated on the 
top of a hill, and the capital of the second delegation of 
the Papal States. It is a polished city, abounding in 
works of art, and worthy a longer stop than travellers 
usually give it. It is true it contains now but 18,000 in¬ 
habitants, but its works of art are the relics of the period 
when it would lose 100,000 by the pestilence in one year 
and still be a large city. I visited the Estruscan tombs 
in this region, and would give you a learned dissertation 
on them if I could throw any light on this intricate sub¬ 
ject. To stand before the urns and mouldering marble 
that were ancient when Rome stood, and Caesar was a 
modern, and read, or rather attempt to read, characters 
that no man can read, lills one with strange sensations. 
These Etruscans understood the arts,especially sculpture, 
and were certainly to some extent a polished race. Their 
epitaphs have reached posterity, but, alas, posterity can¬ 
not read them. What a comment on human fame 1 The 
proud chieftain who built him a tomb before he died, and 
ordered his own marble and epitaph, lies in the midst of 
his garnished sepulchre utterly unknown. This wise 
world cannot make out the letters of his name. If he 
had dreamed posterity would ever have become so de¬ 
generate as to be unable to read the letters of his alpha¬ 
bet, he would probably have scorned to have attempted 
to send his name and race down to it. Perugia has a 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


183 

Lunatic Asylum, managed on the modern improved sys¬ 
tem, and an excellent University. The fortress, called 
the Citadello Paolino, was begun by Pope Paul III., who 
laid waste a part of the town to reduce the Perugians, 
who rebelled against a salt-tax he levied on them. The 
first cannon was smuggled in a corn-sack, and the Peru¬ 
gians commemorated this violation of their liberty by the 
couplet— 

*• Giacchi cosi vuole il diavolo 
Evviva Papa Paolo!” 

“ Since the devil will have it so, 

Long live Pope Paul.” 

The hotel where we stopped was an old palace, and in 
one of the chambers were old armour and paintings, and 
relics enough to make a small museum, and all for sale— 
cheap. But the greatest object of interest, especially to the 
antiquarian, is the Museum, from the number of Estruscan 
relics it contains, all of which are picked up in the neigh¬ 
bourhood of the city. They have already collected near¬ 
ly one hundred separate inscriptions, the longest of which 
contains forty-five lines. 

This city looks down on a most magnificent view. 
The valley of the Tiber towards Rome, is spread out in 
its richness and verdure, sprinkled with villages and con¬ 
vents; while faraway, the beautiful Umbrian Mountains 
finish the surpassingly beautiful landscape. The Cathedral 
and fountain etc., we will leave alone, and hasten away 
to get a sail on the beautiful lake of Thrasymene before 
sunset. The descent into the valley of Caina is steep, and 
we now see no more of the Tiber. Towards evening we 
came to a ridge of hills, from the top of which Thrasymene 
is visible. Here we were compelled to take oxen to drag 
us up. An old lofty tower stands on the top, overgrown 
with ivy, and presenting one of the most picturesque 
ruins of its kind I have ever seen. As I stood at its 
base, and looked back on the valley, cultivated like a 
garden, and green as an emerald, as it lay flooded in the 
light of the setting sun, I did not wonder the Italian 
loved his country. Thrasymene is immortal, from the 
battle fought on its shores, between Hannibal and the 
Roman Consul Flaminius. With Livy as a guide-book 
*or Hobhouse’s notes on the fourth Canto of Childe Harold 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


189 


which are but little more than a translation from Livy and 
Polybius, you can fix every party of the battle-field, al¬ 
most as accurately as you can the localities of Waterloo. 
The range of mountains called the Gualandro, approach 
at two separate points close to the lake, while between, 
the land recedes away, forming an arc larger than a semi¬ 
circle. At the two points where the mountain touches 
the lake, are the two passes that lead into this semicir¬ 
cular area. In the interior of this area, and on the side 
towards * Rome, rises a conical hill, on which Hannibal 
stationed the main body of his troops, while he placed men 
in ambush near the pass on the farther side, towards 
Florence, through which Flamnnus was to come. 
Before daybreak, the Roman Consul entered this pass, 
without sending forward a single spy to ascertain either 
the position of the ground or the enemy. At the farther 
side he saw on the hill-top the Carthaginian army and 
pressed on. Just then a heavy fog rose from the lake, 
and covered the Roman host, while the hill-tops were 
left in the sun light, so that Hannibal could communicate 
with the different portions of his army unseen, and also 
detect, by the moving mist that stirred to the muffled 
tread of the fierce legions, every step of the advancing 
army. Hannibal’s forces had dwindled from a hundred 
thousand down to twenty thousand, yet he had no choice 
but to fight or die. At a given signal, the men in ambush 
fell on the flank of the Romans, while Hannibal moved 
down on their centre. For three hours the battle raged with 
such terrific fury, that neither army were conscious of an 
earthquake that rocked under them the while. The tem¬ 
pest of passion and the shock of battle were more terri¬ 
ble than the passing earthquake. At length Flaminius 
fell, struggling bravely, but in vain, to retrieve his rash 
error; and then the battle became a slaughter. The 
Roman legions were trampled to the ground; and a rivu¬ 
let that was loaded with the carcasses of the slain, rolled 
its purple torrent to the lake, till the lake itself was dis¬ 
coloured far out from the shore. From that day to this, 
for two thousand years, it has bore the name of II San - 
guinetto, or the bloody rivulet. The peasantry retain the 
tradition of the battle, and the name of Hannibal is one 
of terror to them. As I looked over that plain, smiling in 
all the brightness of a spring morning, it did not seem 
possible it had once shook under the tread of the haughty 


190 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


African, and been soaked with the blood of so many 
brave Romans. 

“ Far other scene is Thrasymene now: 

Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 

Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
Lay where their roots are_,»* 

At evening I took a sail on this “ sheet of silver,** 
(and it is a sweet lake with sweeter shores). Thinking 
it would be somewhat romantic to have my boatmen sing 
as they rowed, I proposed to have them give me a song. 
They refused, under the plea of inability. I should as 
soon have thought of a duck being unable to swim, as of 
an Italian not knowing how to sing; so I offered them 
money. After much solicitation, and a liberal offer, they 
finally commenced—but such music! I am not very 
particular under such circumstances, if the harmony m 
not as perfect as it would be in a full orchestra, but this- 
was altogether too much for my nerves. I begged them 
to stop, saying, “ I’ll pay you just as much as if you sung 
an hour—nay, double—if you will only stop.” 

Three beautiful islands rise out of the bosom of this 
lake, on one of which is a convent. Wishing to test the 
men’s knowledge of their priests, I inquired if the monks 
lived there unmarried. “ Certainly,” they replied. “But” 

I added, “ I should think they would be lonely.” “ Oh*” 
said they, “ there are people enough on the island, and the 
monks have women in plenty.” “ How do you know 
™y * inquired. “ Why they have got a great many 
children on the island.” “How can you tell,” I asked 
agam, “ their children from the others ?” “ Oh, by their 
big heads .’’ I laughed outright at the fellow’s shrewdness. 
You must know, the monks, as a general thing, have large 
heads, as well as fat stomachs, and the good Catholic 
fishermen knew the proverb, “ like father like son.” 

. which lies a little off the road, is well worth a 

visit, if for nothing else than to see the house in which 
Petrarch was born, and the well near which Boccaccio 
placed the comic scene of Tofano and Monna Ghita his 
wiie. The cathedral stands on a commanding eminence, 
and its stamed windows are probably the finest in the 
world. Their brilliant colours seem, indeed, as Vasari 
once said, to be “ something rained down from heaven 



TRAVELS IN ITALY, 


191 

for the consolation of men.” They have a custom here 
(i.e., the distinguished families) of putting a marble 
tablet over their doors, stating their rank and greatness. 
This strikes one as ostentatious, but it is very convenient 
to the traveller. 

Truly yours. 


XXXIX. 


A Man built in a Wall. 


Florence, May. 

Dear E.—Leaving Arezzo yesterday later than we 
ought, we were compelled to stop for the night at a 
country inn, entirely removed from any settlement, and 
with no house in sight of it. It was growing dark as 
we drove up, and the lonely inn, though not particularly 
inviting, seemed preferable to the uninhabited road that 
stretched away on the farther side. Every thing was in 
primitive style ; the stables were on the first floor, at the 
foot of the stairs, leading to the second story; and the 
horses slept below, while we slept above. As we went 
up we saw them standing by the manger, just where the 
bar-room should have been, quietly put away for the 
night. Having obtained some honey, my invariable 
resort in wretched inns in Italy, I made my simple meal 
and strolled out into the moonlight to breathe the fresh 
air, when on the hills in the distance—a bonfire suddenly 
blazed up, before which dusky figures were rapidly 
passing and repassing. On inquiry I found that it was 
kindled in honour of an approaching festivity, and that 
music, and dancing would be in the peasant’s cottage 
that night. 1 do not know why it is, but a mirthful 
scene in a strange country among the peasantry brings 
back the memory of home sooner than any thing else. 
There is a freshness, a sincerity about it, that reminds 
one of his childhood years, and makes the heart sad. It 
was so with me last night. Everything was quiet as the 
moonlight on the hills, and the stillness of nature seemed 
filled with sad memories. I returned to my bed but not 



TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


192 

to sleep; the busy brain and busier heart drove slumber 
away. At length a feeliug like suffocation came over 
me, and I rose and opened the window and leaned out 
into the cool air for relief. All was quiet within and 
without. The stars were burning on in the deep heavens, 
and the moon was hanging her crescent far away over 
the hills. The distant bonfire burned low and feebly, for 
the revellers had left it. The heavy breathing of my 
companion in the next room spoke of oblivion and rest, 
while my own loud pulses told how little sleep would be 
mine that night. Memories came thronging back like 
forgotten music, and the sternness of the man, and the 
indifference of the traveller, melted away before the feel¬ 
ings of the child, the son, and the early dreamer. As I 
stood looking off on the sparkling light and deep 
shadows of the uneven surface before me, suddenly from 
cut a grotto of trees, came the clear voice of a nightin¬ 
gale. It was like the voice of a spirit to me, so strange 
and mysterious. Unconscious of any listener, it looked 
out from its thick curtain of leaves and sang on to the 
moon; its wild warble was like the murmur in one’s 
dreams, and the music seemed half repressed in its 
trembling throat. I listened as it rose and died away 
and rose again, till I felt that the sweet bird was singing 
in its happy dreams. How long I listened I know not, 
and what the strange fancies that spell-bound me were, 
I cannot tell. * * * * * At length the morning came and 
we started for Florence. While the driver was harness¬ 
ing his team, I set off on foot and walked on for miles, 
while the quietness around was disturbed only by the 
mournful cry of the cuckoo, the sure precursor of rain. 
We at length entered the Val d’Arno, and wound along 
its beautiful banks. In the distance, on the right, was 
the Vallembrosa, immortalized by Milton, and the 
convent in which he dwelt. The scenery changed with 
every turn of the river, yet it was ever from beautiful to 
beautiful. 

At length we entered the little town of San Giovanni 
(St. John), and after strolling over the cathedral, sent 
for the woman who keeps the key of the door that shuts 
over the withered form of a man cased in a side wall of 
the church San Lorenzo, As the sort of trap-door swung 
open, I recoiled a step in horror, for there stood upright, 
a human skeleton, perfect in all its parts, staring upon 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


193 


me with its dead eye-sockets. No coffin inclosed it—no 
mason work surrounded it, but among the naked, jagged 
stones, it stood erect and motionless. 

This church had been built centuries ago, and remained 
untouched till within a few years, when in making some 
repairs, the workmen had occasion to pierce the wall, 
and struck upon this skeleton. They carefully uncovered 
it, without disturbing its position or loosening a single 
bone. Why and wherefore I cannot tell, but the priests 
have left it to stand in the place and attitude it was dis¬ 
covered, an object of superstitious dread, yet of universal 
interest. A narrow door had been made to swing over 
it, to protect it from injury and shield it from the eyes of 
those who worship in the church. The frame indicates a 
powerful man, and though it is but a skeleton, the whole 
attitude aDd aspect give one the impression of a death of 
agony. The arms are folded across the breast in forced 
resignation, the head is slightly bowed, and the shoulders 
elevated, as if in the effort to breathe, while the very face 
—bereft of muscle as it is—seems full of suffering. An 
English physician was with me, and inured to skeletons 
as he was, his countenance changed as he gazed on it, 
his eyes seemed rivetted to it and he made no reply to the 
repeated questions I put to him, but kept gaziDg, as if in 
a trance. It was not till after we left that he spoke of it, 
and then his voice was low and solemn, as if he himself 
had seen the living burial. Said he, “ That man died by 
suffocation , and he was built up alive in that wall. In 
the first place, it is evident it was a case of murder, for 
there are no grave clothes, no coffin, and no mason work 
around the body. The poor civility of a savage was not 
shown here, in knocking off the points of the stones, to 
give even the appearance of regularity to the enclosure. 
He was packed into the rough wall, and built over, 
beginning at the feet. It is extremely difficult to tell any¬ 
thing of the manner of death, whether painfnl or pleasant, 
by any skeleton, for the face always has the appearance 
of suffering ; but there are certain indications about this 
which show that the death was a painful one, and caused, 
doubtless, by suffocation. In the first place, the arms are 
not crossed gently and quietly in the decent composure of 
death, but far over , as with a painful effort or by force. 
In the second place the shoulders are elevated, as if the 
N 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


194 

last, strong effort of the man was for breath. In the 
third place, the bones of the toes are curled over the edge 
of the stone on which he stands, as if contracted in agony 
when life parted. And,” continued the doctor, with true 
professional detail, “ he died hard, for he was a powerful 
man. He was full six feet high, with broad chest ana 
shoulders, and strong-limbed.” I knew all this before, 
for I felt it. There was no mistaking the manner of that 
man’s death. I could tell every step of the process. 
Doubtless there was originally some hanging, or church 
furniture in this part of the church, to conceal the dis¬ 
placement of the wall. In a dark night the unfortunate 
man was entrapped, bound and brought into this temple, 
where he first could be tortured to death, and then the 
crime concealed. Men of rank were engaged in it, for 
none other could have got the control of a church, and 
none but a distinguished victim would have caused such 
great precaution in the murderers. By the dim light of 
lamps, whose rays scarcely reached the lofty ceiling, the 
stones were removed before the eyes of the doomed man, 
and measurement after measurement taken, to see if the 
aperture was sufficiently large. A bound and helpless 
victim, he lay on the cold pavement, with the high altar 
and cross before him, but no priest to shrive him. Stifling 
in pride the emotions that checked his very sighs, he 
strung every nerve for the slow death he must meet. At 
length the opening was declared large enough, and he 
was lifted into it. The workman began at the feet, and 
with his mortar and trowel built up with the same care¬ 
lessness he would exhibit in filling any broken wall. The 
successful enemy stood leaning on his sword—a smile of 
scorn and revenge on his features—and watched the face 
of the man he hated, hut no longer feared. Ah, it was a 
wild effort that undertook to return glance for glance and 
scorn for scorn, when one was the conquered and helpless 
victim, and the other the proud and victorious foe! It 
was slow work fitting the pieces nicely, so as to close up 
the aperture with precision. The tinkling of the trowel 
on the edges of the stones, as it broke off here and there 
a particle to make them match, was like the blow of a 
hammer on the excited nerves of the half buried wretch. 
At length the solid wall rose over his chest, repressing its 
effort to lift with the breath, when a stifled groan for the 
first time escaped the sufferer’s lips, and a shudder rau 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 19& 

through his frame that threatened to shake the solid mass 
which enclosed it to pieces. Yet up went the mason 
work till it reached the mouth, and the rough fragment 
was jammed into the teeth, and fastened there with the 
mortar—and still rose, till nothing but the pale white 
forehead was visible in the opening. With care and 
precision the last stone was fitted in the narrow space— 
the trowel passed smoothly over it—a stifled groan, as if 
from the centre of a rock, broke the stillnes—one strong 
shiver, and all was over. The agony had passed—re¬ 
venge was satisfied, and a secret locked up for the great 
revelation day. Years rolled by; one after another of 
the murderers dropped into his grave, and the memory of 
the missing man passed from the earth. Years will still . 
roll by, till this strong frame shall step out from its 
narrow enclosure upon the marble pavement, a living 
man. 

Absorbed in the reflections such a sight naturally 
^awakens, I rode on, for a long time unconscious of the 
scenery around me, and of the murmur of the Amo on 
its way through the valley. But other objects at length 
crowded off the shadow that was on the spirit; the day 
wore away, and at last, after ascending a long and 
weary mountain, Florence, with its glorious dome, and 
the whole vale of the Arno, rich as a garden, lay below 
ns. Past smiling peasants and vine-covered walls we 
trotted down into the valley and entered the city. 

Truly yours. 


19G 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


XL. 

American Artists in Florence. 


Florence, May. 

Dear E.—We have long been accused of wanting 
taste and genius, especially in the fine arts; and an 
Englishman always smiles at any pretension to them on 
our part. In his criticism, our poetry is imitation of the 
great bards of England; while our knowledge of music 
is confined to Yankee Doodle and Hail Columbia; and 
our skill in architecture, to the putting up of steeples, 
school-houses, and liberty poles. It may be so, but we 
will cheerfully enter the field with him in that depart¬ 
ment of the fine arts, calling for the loftiest efforts of 
genius, and the purest incarnation of the sentiment of 
beauty in man—I mean painting and sculpture, especially 

the latter. . , ,, 

There are two American artists in Florence, by the 
name of Brown; one a painter, and other a sculptor. 
Mr. Brown the painter is one of the best copyists of the 
age. Under his hand, the great masters reappear in un- 
diminished beauty. But his merits do not stop here—he 
is also a fine composer; and when the mood is on him, 
flings off most spirited designs. In his house we have 
seen pieces that indicate merit of the highest order. 

We first saw Mr. Brown in the Pitti Gallery. Wan¬ 
dering through it one day with a quondam attache , to one 
of the continental embassies, my friend paused before a 
magnificent picture, and introduced me to the artist as 
Mr. Brown of America. It was a copy of one of Salvator 
Eosa’s finest pieces, and had already been contracted for, 
by a member of the English Parliament, for sixty pounds. 
Walking one day through the gallery, the Englishman 
was struck with the remarkable beauty of the copy, and 
immediately purchased it, though in an unfinished state. 
Thus we lose them; and though we possess fine artists, 
our wealthy men refuse to buy their works, and they 
go to embellish the drawing-rooms and galleries of EDg- 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


197 


land. Mr. Powers stands undoubtedly at the head of 
American sculptors. His two great works are Eve and 
the Greek Slave. Critics are divided on the merits of 
these two figures. As the mere embodiment of beauty 
and loveliness, the Slave undoubtedly has the pre-emi¬ 
nence. The perfect moulding of the limbs, the exquisite 
proportion and harmony of all the parts, the melancholy, 
yet surpassingly lovely face, combine to render it more 
like a beautiful vision assuming the aspect of marble, 
than a solid form hewn out of rock. There she stands, 
leaning on her arm and musing on her inevitable destiny. 
There is no paroxysm of grief, no overwhelming anguish, 
depicted on the countenance. It is a calm and hopeless 
sorrow—the quiet submission of a heart too pure and 
gentle for any stormy passion. That heart has broken it 
is true, but broken in silence—without a murmur or 
complaint. The first feeling her look and attitude in¬ 
spire, is not so much a wish yourself to rescue her, as 
a prayer that Heaven would do it. It is beautiful— 
spiritually beautiful—the very incarnation of sentiment 
and loveliness. In its mechanical execution, it reminds 
one of the Appolino in the Tribune of the Royal Gallery.* 
The Eve exhibits less sentiment, but more character- 
She is not only beautiful, but great —bearing in her aspect 
the consciousness she is the mother of a mighty race- 
In all the paintings of Eve, she is simply a beautiful 
woman, and indeed we do not believe that any one but 
an American or an Englishman could conceive a proper 
idea of Eve. Passion and beauty a Frenchman and an 
Italian can paint, but moral character, the high purpose 
of calm thought and conscious greatness, they have not 
the most dim conception of. There is a noble Lucretia in 
the gallery of Naples—a fine Portia in Genoa, and Cleo- 


* We have been told a ludicrous anecdote of this Greek slave and an Ig¬ 
norant but wealthy American, for the truth of which we cannot personally 
vouch. An American, who had suddenly acquired great wealth by spe¬ 
culation, took it into his head to travel, and finding himself at length in 
Florence, made a visit to Mr. Powers’ Studio. Looking over the dif¬ 
ferent statues, his eye rested on the Greek Slave. “ What may you call 
that are boy ?” said he. “ The Greek Slave,” replied Mr. Powers. “ And 
what maybe the price of it?” continued our Yankee. “Six hundred 
pounds” was the answer, as the artist gazed a moment at the odd speci¬ 
men of humanity before him. “ Six hundred pounds ,” he exclaimed—, 
“ you don’t say so, now. Why, I thought of buying something on you, 
but that's a notch above me. Why statiary is riz, ain’t it ?” 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


198 

patras by great painters in abundance everywhere, but 
not one figure that dimly shadows forth what the mother 
of mankind ought to be. Stern purpose and invincible 
daring are often seen in female heads and figures by the 
great masters, but the simple greatness of intellect 
seldom. 

Powers’ Eve is a woman with a soul as well as heart, 
and as she stands with the apple in her hand, musing on 
the fate it involves, and striving to look down the dim 
and silent future it promises to reveal, her countenance 
indicates the great, yet silent struggle within. Wholly 
absorbed in her own reflections, her countenance uncon¬ 
sciously brings you into the same state of deep and 
painful thought. She is a noble woman —too noble to be 
lost. We wonder this subject has not been more suc¬ 
cessfully treated before. There is full scope for the- 
imagination in it; and not a permission, but a demand, 
for all that is beautiful and noble in a created being. 
It has the advantage also of fact, instead of fiction, 
while, at the same time, the fact is greater than any 
fiction. 

In composing this work, Mr. Powers evidently threw 
all the Venuses and goddesses overboard, and fell back 
on his own creative genius, and the result is a perfect 
triumph. Some, even good critics, have gone so far as 
to give this the preference to the Venus di Medici. The 
head and face, taken separately, are doubtless superior. 
The first impression of the Venus is unfavourable. The 
head and face are too small, and inexpressive. But after 
a few visits this impression is removed, and that form, 
wrought with such exquisite grace, and so full of senti¬ 
ment, grows on one’s love, and mingles in his thoughts, 
and forms for ever after the image of beauty in the soul. 
Our first exclamation on beholding it was one of disap¬ 
pointment, and we unhesitatingly gave Mr. Powers’ Eve 
the preference. There is something more than the form 
of a goddess in that figure—there is an atmosphere of 
beauty beyond and around it—a something intangible 
yet real—making the very marble sacred One may for¬ 
get other statues, and the particular impression they 
made grows dim with time, but Venus, once imaged on 
the heart, remains there for ever, in all its distinctness 
and beauty. 

Mr. Powers told me he had thirty different females as 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


m 

inodels for his Eve alone. She must be a rare being who 
■would combine, in her single person, the separate attrac¬ 
tions of thirty beautiful women, and yet the artist finds 
her still too ugly for the perfect being of his fancy, and 
turns away dissatisfied to his ideal form. If Jupiter was 
an artist, and Minerva sprang out of his forehead the 
living image of his idea of a perfect woman, she would 
be well worth seeing. 

Clevenger* is also a true artist. His great work is an 
Indian Chief. It is a noble figure, and shows conclu¬ 
sively that our Indian wild bloods furnish as good speci¬ 
mens of well-knit, graceful, and athletic forms, as the 
Greek wrestlers themselves. He stands leaning on his 
bow, with his head slightly turned aside, and his breath 
suspended in the deepest listening attitude, as if he ex¬ 
pected every moment to hear again the stealthy tread his 
ear had but partially caught a moment before. Clevenger 
is an open-hearted, full-souled man—western in all his 
tastes and great characteristics—and designs to spend his 
life in our western country, to let his fame grow up with 
its growing people. Among Clevenger’s minor works 

was a beautiful bust of Miss-, of New York, a perfect 

gem in its way. 

I asked him what he thought an Indian would say to 
meet in the forest his statue, painted, and tricked off in 
savage costume. He laughed outright at the conception, 
and replied, “ He would probably stand still and look at 
it a moment in suspense, and then exclaim, ugh. That 
would be the beginning and end of his criticism.” 

Close to Clevenger’s studio is that of Brown, the 
sculptor. He was also engaged on an Indian—not a war¬ 
rior, or hunter, but a boy and a poet of the woods. In¬ 
dians, among the gods and goddesses of Florence, were a 
new thing, and excited not a little wonder; and it was 
gratifying to see that American genius could not only 
strike out a new path, but follow it successfully. 

But I forget my Poetic Indian Boy, though it is not so 
easy to forget him, for his melancholy, thoughtful face 
haunts me like a vision, and I often say to myself, “ I 
wonder what has become of that dreamy boy,” In it, 
Mr. Brown has endeavoured to body forth his own na¬ 
ture, which is full of “ musing and melancholy.” The 


* Since dead. 



200 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


boy has gone into the woods to hunt, but the music of 
the wind among the tree-tops, and the swaying of the 
great branches above him, and the mysterious influence of 
the deep forest, with its multitude of low voices, have 
made him forget his errand; and he is leaning on a 
broken tree, with his bow resting against his shoulder, 
while one hand is thrown behind him, listlessly grasping 
the useless arrow. His head is slightly bent, as if in 
deep thought, and as you look on the face, you feel that 
forest boy is beyond his years, and has begun too early to 
muse on life and man. The effect of the statue is to 
interest one deeply in the fate of the being it represents. 
You feel that his life will not pass like the life ol ordinary 
men. This effect, the very one the artist sought to pro¬ 
duce, is of itself the highest praise that could be bestowed 
on the work. 

Mr. Brown corroborated an impression often forced on 
me in Italy, that the Italians are almost universally dis- 
proportioned in their limbs. The arms of opera singers 
had always appeared awkwardly proportioned, which 
Mr. Brown told me was true, and that the same criticism 
held good of the lower limbs of both sexes, and that often 
when he thought he had found a faultless form, and one 
that indeed did answer remarkably to the standard of 
measurement considered faultless by artists, he was 
almost universally disappointed in the shortness of the 
limbs between the knee and the ankle. Here is a fact for 
our ladies, and upsets some of our theories of the beauty 
of Italian forms. Mr. Brown, who has had models in 
both countries, declares that the American form harmo¬ 
nizes with the right standard oftener than the Italian.— 
The Italian women have finer busts, which gives them an 
erect and dignified appearance, and a firmer walk. 

There is a new artist just risen in Florence, who 
threatens to take the crown off from Powers’ head. His 
name is Dupre—a Frenchman by extraction, though an 
Italian by birth. Originally a poor wood-engraver, he 
designed and executed last year, unknown to anybody, 
the model of a dead Abel. Without advancing in the 
usual way from step to step, and testing his skill on 
busts and inferior subjects, he launched off on his untried 
powers into the region of highest effort. A year ago this 
winter, at the annual exhibition of designs and statues in 
Florence, young Dupre placed his Abel in the gallery.— 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


201 


No one had seen it—no one had heard of it. Occupying 
an unostentatious place, and bearing an unknown name, 
it was at first passed by with a cursory glance. But 
somehow or other, those who had seen it once, found 
themselves after a while returning for a second look, till 
at length the whole crowd stood grouped around it, in 
silent admiration—our own artists among the number.— 
It immediately became the talk of the city, and, in a 
single week, the poor wood-engraver vaulted from his 
humble occupation, into a seat among the first artists of 
his country. A Russian princess, passing through the 
city, saw it, and was so struck with its singular beauty, 
that she immediately ordered a statue, for which the 
artist is to receive eight hundred pounds. Many of the 
artists became envious of the sudden elevation of Dupre, 
and declared that no man ever wrought that model, and 
could not—that it was moulded from a dead body, and 
the artist was obliged to get the affidavits of his models 
to protect himself from slander. 

I regard this figure equal, if not superior, in its kind, to 
any statue ever wrought by any sculptor of any age. It 
is not proper, of course, to compare it with the Venus di 
Medici, or Apollo Belvidere, for they are of an entirely 
different character. The dead son of Niobe, in the Hall 
of Niobe, in the Royal Gallery, is a stiff wooden figure 
compared to it. The only criticism I could utter when I 
first stood over it was, “ Oh, how dead he lies /” There 
is no marble there, it is all flesh—flesh flexible as if the 
tide of life poured through it—yet bereft of its energy. 
The beautiful martyr looks as if but just slain, and before 
the muscles became rigid and the form stiff, had been 
thrown on a hill side; and with his face partly turned 
away, and one arm flung back despairingly over his head, 
he lies in death as natural as the human body itself would 
rest. The same perfection of design and execution is ex¬ 
hibited in all the details, and the whole figure is a noble 
monument of modern genius. Being a new thing, and 
hence not down in the guide-books, most travellers have 
passed through Florence without seeing it. We were 
indebted for our pleasure to a young attache who has 
resided some years in the city, and hence is acquainted 
with all its objects of interest. 

Dupre is now engaged on a Cain, who is to stand over 
the Abel. It was with great difficulty we got access to 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


202 

it, it being yet in an unfinished state. This is also a noble 
figure, of magnificent proportions, and wonderful muscu¬ 
lar power. He stands gazing down on his dead brother^ 
terror-struck at the new and awful form of death before 
him, his face working with despair and horror, and his 
powerful frame wrought into intense action by the terrible 
energy of the soul within. This is a work of great merits 
but in our estimation falling far below the Abel. The 
attitude is too theatrical, and the whole expression extra¬ 
vagant and overwrought. 

Dupre is a handsome man, with large black eyes and 
melancholy features. 

Yours truly. 


XLI. 

Venus de Medici. Titian's Venuses. Death of a Child. 

Florence, May. 

Dear E. —I do not design to write you often from 
Florence, since the great attraction here are the paintings 
and statuary, and those cannot be written about. You 
wish, of course, to know what I think of the Venus d£ 
Medici. Like all others I am disappointed at first sight. 
The head and face certainly are inferior in expression and. 
power to the rest of the figure. But the form itself grows 
on one the oftener he sees it, till it becomes a part of the 
world of beauty within, and enters into all his after crea¬ 
tions. The Tribune, as it is called, or circular room, in 
which it stands, is a rare spot. A row of the choicest 
statuary surrounds it, while the walls are hung with ex¬ 
quisite paintings. The two naked Venuses by Titian,, 
hanging behind the Venus de Medici, are admirably 
painted, but to me disgusting pictures, from their almost 
beastly sensuality. I should think Titian might have 
conceived the design of them when half drunk, and took 
his models from a brothel. I have no patience with such 
prostitution of genius. The marble Venus has something* 
of the goddess about her. There is an atmosphere of 



TRAVELS IN ITALY. 203 

purity—divinity if you please—surrounding it, that holds 
you as by a spell. 

The Flora, so called, of Titian, in another apartment of 
this gallery, is surpassingly lovely. I would give his two 
Venuses, nay, a hundred of them, for this single picture. 
The group of Niobe disappointed me. With the excep¬ 
tion of Niobe herself and her two daughters, the figures 
struck me as commonplace. This whole royal gallery is 
a wealth of art. It was offered to Pitt for a reasonable 
sum, but that statesman had got England too deep under 
water already to plunge her deeper by the purchase of 
works of art. 

In the cabinet of antique bronzes is an eagle of the 
twenty-fourth Roman Legion. I do not know when I 
have seen an object that interested me more. Long, long 
ago, when Rome was in her glory, it had soared aloft 
amid the smoke of battle and the shock of armies, the 
sign and hope of this glorious old legion, leading it on to 
victory and triumph. It had survived all who bore it, 
and, like the legion itself, had now sunk to rest. Its 
brazen wings will no more float over the field of the slain, 
nor its victorious beak bathe itself in the blood of its foes. 
It is now only a relic like the tombs of the Caesars them¬ 
selves. 

The Pitti gallery, in the Ducal Palace, is the finest col¬ 
lection of paintings in the world, but I shall not describe 
one —only, if you ever go there, inquire out a head said to 
be by Vandyke, because they don’t know to whom else to 
attribute it. Every artist will know what you mean. I 
consider it the most perfect head and face ever painted. 

This evening I went to the “ Cascine ,” or royal farms, 
constituting the great public drive and promenade of 
Florence. The Duke’s family were strolling around, 
quite at their ease, and the whole place was as lively as 
Hyde Park at 5 o’clock in the evening. I walked home 
by the Arno, and entering the city, witnessed one of those 
spectacles that are constantly intruding themselves in our 
brightest dreams, and turning this world into a place of 
tears. As I was passing along the street, a little child 
bung playfully across the sill of a window, in the fourth 
story; suddenly it lost its balance, and came like a flash 
of light to the pavement. Its delicate form was crushed 
into one common mass by the blow. The mother rushed 
down like a frantic creature, and snatching it to her 


204 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


bosom, hurried with it into the house. A few spectators 
gathered around the pool of blood, it had left on the pave¬ 
ment. I turned away sick at heart, and thinking how 
little it took to turn this beautiful world into a gloomy 
prison house. 

But sauntering shortly after into a cafe, T forgot the 
mother, in the gay groups that surrounded me. Here I 
met my friend Ferguson, a noble man, whose face always 
made me think better of my race. I afterwards crossed 
the Arno, and spent the evening with an English family, 
composed of some seven or eight in all, and intimate 
friends of Carlyle. The conversation turned on America, 
and I could not restrain a smile, at the queer and endless 
questions put me of our country; though I must say, 
none of them were quite so absurd as a remark once 
made to one of my most distinguished countrywomen 
when in England. Speaking of the United States, this 
English lady very profoundly observed that the climate 
in our country must be delightfully cool in summer, from 
the winds blowing over the Cordilleras mountains. Most 
of their questions were of our Indians, and their forest 
and prairie life; how they looked, walked, and talked, 
and what they wore. (With regard to the latter, I could 
have much better told what they did not wear.) At last 
I went over their mode of warfare, and when I came to 
speak of their terrific war-whoop—the signal of the onset 
—a sweet creature of fifteen, who had hitherto sat in 
perfect silence, and staring eyes, and lips apart, suddenly 
exclaimed, “ Oh! cannot you show us how that war- 
whoop sounds ?” I stopped and thought a moment, and 
it was well I did, for the temptation was almost irresisti¬ 
ble to send that excitable creature, like a startled pigeon, 
from her seat by a sudden whoop, which, whether Indian- 
like or not, would most certainly have met with a res¬ 
ponse. I had slightly learned the art, when a boy, from 
an old Indian, to whom I used to give a penny a whoop, 
just to feel my blood shiver, as, with his fingers rapidly 
beating his lips, he sent that wild, wavering cry, with 
startling power along the mountains; and I felt a most 
wicked desire just then to test my gilts. Why is it one 
feels at times this irresistible impulse to do some out-of- 
the-way thing, just to witness its effect? Just then 
Carlyle, with his massive head, rose before me; and I 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 205 

imagined him quietly asking me if 1 called that “ a well 
authenticated whoop.” 

Late at night I left this circle of kind friends, with 
whom I had spent many a pleasant hour in Italy, and 
with the full round moon riding over the quiet city, and 
throwing its silver beams on the waters and bridges of 
the Arno, turning them all into poetry and beauty, I 
passed along through the deserted streets, to the Piazza 
della Santa Croce. The sound of my own footsteps, 
echoing amid the silent palaces; and the glimmering 
moonlight, bathing all in its saddening beams, filled me 
with strange feelings, almost like forebodings ; and I ar¬ 
rived at my lodgings as different a man from the one I 
was when amid my Indian battles, as if I had changed 
souls within the last half hour. Metempsychosis does not 
seem at times so strange a belief, after all. 

Truly yours. 


XLII. 

Stroll through Florence. A Dominican Friar. 


Florence. 

Dear E.—The Duomo, beautiful as it is, I shall not 
attempt to describe, nor the Chapel of the Medici. Oh, 
what a strange history is that of the family of the Medici! 
What bloody murders and vice stain its greatness! If 
that Pitti palace could give back all the revels and groans 
it has heard, no man would enter its portals. 

The gardens around Florence are beautiful, and the 
“ Giardino di Boboli ” a fairy land. You can stroll for 
hours through it without satiety. Florence is livelier 
than most of the Italian towns, and I should prefer it far 
before any other portion of Italy, as a place of residence. 
The custom of putting a marble tablet over the doors of 
houses, where some distinguished character has lived or 
died, saves one a deal of trouble. Thus you see where 
Dante was born—Corinna lived—Americus Vespucci— 
(the discoverer of America, as the inscription states)— 
made it his home—and last, though not least, on the hill 



206 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


the house where the great 


near Galileo’s tower, 
astronomer died. 

To-day has been one of my strolling days, and I have 
wandered hither and thither in search of incident and 
new objects. In the morning I went to Fiesoli, perched 
a an ^ overlooking the gardens of Florence 

find tho rich plain through which the Arno winds. I 
forgot its Etruscan relics in the lovely view that was 
spread out below me. From this point, Florence looks 
like a beautiful picture framed in a garden, which is itself 
framed by the beautiful hills. 

Walking in the afternoon along the main street, I met 

£ i T a " X , talian exile - 1 ha d not seen him since 

ne left the United States, and did not expect to meet 
Him here. As he recognized me, he rushed across the 
street, and in true Italian manner, threw his arms around 
my neck, and kissed both of my cheeks. This being 
kissed by men, and in the streets, is rather awkward at 
nrst, but one soon gets accustomed to any thing. I took 
the embrace as it was intended; and knowing that I 
stood, in his view, as a representative of those he loved 
m America, having no particular claim on him myself, I 
distributed the kiss around to hit friends, who were my 
friends; and by the time I got through with what I 
share ^ ^ lr <Xlvlslon ' X f° un d nothing remaining to my 

I like to have forgot the Laurentian Library, with its 
manuscripts and illuminated missals, and I mention them 
now only to excite your cupidity over an illuminated 
copy of Petrarch, with portraits of himself and Laura ex- 
wrou ^t with the pen, and the Decameron of 
Boccaccio, copied by his friend, and a Virgil, of the 
earliest manuscript edition. 

_ J % let ^ r introduction to a friar of the Domi¬ 
nican Order, in the convent of St. Mark, who showed 
me mmiy things I should otherwise have missed. He is 

aVaf £ a T + 1 ? an r and is now en g a ged in a biographical 
1V f the artists of the Dominican order 

n S? V. aluable work. In roaming with him 
through the cloisters and library of the convent, I felt 

men e pmil!? Ve w J.^ h lts c l uietne9S > and ceased to wonder 
men could pass their lives in such a secluded manner. I 

He tTerZ % S 18 friar with Pleasure and affection. 

He is a good man, if there is one on the earth. He break- 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


207 

fasted with me yesterday morning, and in his kindness of 
manner and liberality of feeling, and gentlemanly 
bearing, I forgot the light robe of his order and his faith, 
and felt for him an affection and regard I seldom en¬ 
tertain towards a comparative stranger. The cloisters 
of this church contain some remarkable frescoes, exe¬ 
cuted by a friar. They have a finish almost like that 
of a miniature painting. My English friends were 
very anxious to get a peep at these frescoes, but the 
rules forbid the introduction of ladies into the convent. 
My good friend the friar presented a petition to the 
prior for special permission, but before it could be 
granted, it would be necessary to have it carried 
up to the archbishop; and before all that process could 
be gone through with, I knew I should be on my way to 
Switzerland. He gave me a sly hint, however, which 
I was half a mind to act upon. Being very anxious to 
have the ladies see these frescoes, especially as they were 
very desirous to do so, I asked him if there was no way 
of gaining access for them without the ceremony of a 
formal permit. “No,” said he, “unless you do it with¬ 
out our knowledge. You can visit the convent; and it 
sometimes happens that the door to that painting (the 
principal one, and the one on the lower floor) is left open, 
and if you should take advantage of it and go in, we could 
not help it, you know.” I understood the hint, and see¬ 
ing that it came from his overflowing kindness and desire 
to grant my request, I felt unbounded gratitude towards 
him. I saw he was willing to compromise himself to 
please me, and would see that the door ivas left open in 
that very supposable manner. I could not expose such 
goodness to the least inconvenience, and felt that I would 
rather disappoint myself and my friends a hundred times 
over, than cause him trouble on our behalf. 

In this convent they make a peculiar kind of cordial, 
which they keep in a sort of druggist’s shop close by 
the cloisters, and where a friar stands always ready to 
supply the purchaser. With this good Dominican I 
visited a friar artist, of his own order, whose studio was 
in one of the old cells of the convent. He stood with 
pallet in hand, dressed in the robes of his order, before a 
picture of a beautiful woman as I entered, which he 
seemed contemplating with no ordinary interest. He 
was a superb man in his physique, and in the large dark 


208 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


eye and jet black curling hair, clustering gracefully 
around his ample forehead, you could discern the poet 
and the dreamer far more than the devout friar. Ex¬ 
quisite paintings by himself of female figures and heads, 
were scattered around the room; and I must confess, 
this evidence of the good taste of the priest increased my 
respect for him every moment I remained in his studio. 
He has one of those faces I never forget to remotest time. 
His great black eyes seemed to look into my very soul. 
On my last visit to my friar friend, I took a cup of 
coffee with him in one of the rooms of the convent, and 
then bade him good bye. His farewell was unaffected, 
yet full of kindness, and he wished all blessings, present 
and to come, upon my head. God bless him, and would 
there were more men in our world as good as he. 

Truly yours. 


XLIII. 

Pisa. Condition of Italian Peasantry. Silver Mines. SeraveEza Quarries. 

Love Scene of Peasants. Pass of the Appennines. 

Dear E.—I have skipped over many of the details of 
Florence, not because they were uninteresting to me but 
because they would be to you. I could describe (with 
the help of a guide-book) the magnificent doors of the 
Baptistry and the Campanile, and Duomo itself, but it 
would be only description. I had thought of taking a 
boat from Florence to Pisa, and so sail down the Arno. 
If I could have been assured pleasant weather, I should 
have done it, but two days in an open boat, and drenched 
with rain, would have quite killed the romance of the 
thing. 

We took a light carriage and reached Pisa before 
night. Making but a short stay in it, I will only say 
the quay along the Arno is very beautiful, and the 
Duomo, Baptistry, Campo Santo and leaning tower, 
standing together and rising out from the green field on 
which they are placed, from one of the most striking 
architectural views I ever saw. They alone are worth 



TRAVELS IN IATLY 


209 


a long journey to see. The road from thence to Lucca 
is decidedly the most charming one I ever travelled. 
Now almost embowered in the grape vines that hang 
along its margin, with no fences to mar the beauty, and 
now opening on a sweet plain—it presents a constant 
succession of scenes, the last ever seeming the most beau¬ 
tiful. 

Lucca itself stands in the centre of an extended plain, 
surrounded with a most perfect and symmetrical wall. 
Its baths are world renowned. On my route I was 
struck with the improved character of the Tuscan pea¬ 
santry compared with other parts of Italy. 

The peasantry of Italy, as a general thing, are more 
virtuous than the richer classes, and in many provinces 
do not suffer for the necessaries of life. The difference 
in the different sections, is as great as that between the 
cultivated and uncultivated land of those regions. Field¬ 
work, which in our country is chiefly confined to the 
men, except in the slave districts, is here performed also 
by women. Wheat is generally sown in drills, and after 
it has reached a certain height is weeded out generally 
by females and boys, who pass between the rows with 
narrow hoes. The peculiar costumes of the peasantry 
often gives them a picturesque appearance in the fields. 
I have seen in the wheat fields near Naples twelve or fif¬ 
teen women in a group, each with a napkin folded on 
the top of her head, to protect it from the sun—while 
the dark spencer and red skirt open in front and 
pinned back so as to disclose a blue petticoat beneath 
—contrasted beautifully with the bright green field that 
spread away on every side. They usually go to their 
work in the morning with their distaffs in their hands, 
spinning as they walk. 

The distaff is one of those characteristics of the country 
you meet at every turn. It is like a common distaff, and 
held under the arm, while the spindle rests in the hand. 
The flax is pulled out into a thread in the usual way, 
when the spindle is dropped and a twirl given it as it 
falls, so that it hangs dangling by the thread and twisting 
it as it revolves. I have often stopped of a bright morn¬ 
ing and watched these picturesque groups, slowly saun¬ 
tering along to their labour. Many of them will ask alms 
ns you pass, as a mere matter of economy. To a cheerful 
o 


210 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


looking woman who asks you for money, you cannot well 
refuse a few pennies. It is sought and obtained m a sin¬ 
gle minute, and yet it is the price of a whole day s labour. 

In the country between Naples and Rome, some parts ol 
which are very beautiful, the wages of a woman iu the field 
is a Carline , or fourpence per day , and she finds herself . 
One can hardly conceive how fourpence would buy her 
daily food, much less clothe and shelter her; but it is in¬ 
credible on what a small sum an Italian will live. Many 
a poor noble would be supremely happy could he have 

the income of our common clerks. 

Travellers who follow the main routes know little o! 
the character of the Italian peasantry. Around the hotels 
and villages they have become contaminated by foreigners. 
But go back into the mountains, and the extreme polite¬ 
ness and civility you meet at every turn endear them to 
you before you are aware of it. Male and female salute 
you as you pass, and in such a pleasant manner that you 
scarcely regard yourself as a foreigner. 

Visiting the silver mines on the borders of Lucca ana 
Carrara, I was struck with the change of character of the 
lower classes immediately on leaving the main road. But 
the pleasure I received was soon forgotten in the sad 
spectacle that met me as I approached the mines. I never 
saw paler or more woe-begone faces than those of the 
females I found myself among. They were mostly young 
women,but poor, with sunken eyes, and colourless cheeks, 
and a perfect marble expression of features.. They are 
employed in various departments, but chiefly in washing 
silver dust. Whether it be the cold mountain water iu 
which their arms are constantly bathed, or the influence 
of the metal they separate, or both, I know not—but our 
hard-driven factory girls look like rose-buds, compared 
to them. We went through the mines with the head 
miner, and when we left him, astonished him beyond 
measure with the present of two shillings: “ e molta 
genoroso ,” said he. We had employed him but half au 
hour, and that after his day s work was done, and yet he 
received for it a whole day’s wages. 

Returning from these mines just at evening we met 
one of those dandy peasants we often see painted, but 
seldom encounter. A perfect rustic Adonis, with flowing 
locks and rosy cheeks, and beautiful bright and laughing 
eye—he had that jaunty air and rollicking gait which 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


211 


characterizes your peasant beau. His hat was set rak¬ 
ishly on one side, while his flashy vest and careless cos¬ 
tume gave him a decidedly reckless appearance. But he 
was a handsome fellow, and as he passed us with his oxen 
and cart he trolled away a careless ditty. A peasant girl 
stepped into the road that moment and joined him, but it 
did not look exactly like a casual meeting. As they 
walked on side by side, he had such a good-for-nothing 
scape-grace look that I could not help calling out to him. 
They both looked back and laughed, when he suddenly 
seized her by the waist and gave her a kiss that fairly 
rung again. The blow that followed sent him half-way 
across the road and made my ears tingle in sympathy. 

The next day we went into the mountain to visit the 
Seravezza quarry, and also the Murcury mines. These 
last are very unprofitable and dreadfully destructive of 
human life. Mr. Powers uses the Seravezza marble ex¬ 
clusively. Wandering amid the hovels, and along a 
mountain-stream, that disclosed at every step some new 
beauty in the stupendous scenery that enclosed me, I en¬ 
tirely lost track of my companions. Discovering at length 
they had gone to the top of the mountain to visit the 
highest quarries, I was fool enough to follow. But after 
winding up and up for a long time, I became confused in 
the multitude of paths that continually crossed and inter¬ 
sected mine. But while 1 stood midway on the moun¬ 
tain doubtful what course to take, a young woman about 
eighteen years of age overtook me. She was decidedly 
pretty, with a slight and graceful form. The everlasting 
distaff was in her hand, and she spun away as she slowly 
ascended the zigzag path. I inquired the road to the 
quarries, she told me she was on her way there and would 
accompany me. We fell into a chit-chat—sustained as 
well as could be expected with my bad Italian on one side, 
and her miserable patois on the other. I asked her if she 
was carrying the dinner to her friends in the quarries. 
“ Oh no,’’ she replied. Ah, said, I, in true Yankee in¬ 
quisitiveness, I suppose you are going up to visit your 
your husband ? She burst into a clear laugh and replied, 
“Oh, no, I am not married.” Well, then, said I in per¬ 
fect wonder, what are you climbing this tremendous hill 
for? “Oh, I carry quadrette ,” she answered. Quadrette! 
I exclaimed, what’s that? On inquiry I found that she 
was employed all day in bringing square blocks of marble 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


212 

dressed for pavements from the quarry to the plain. A 
thick napkin was folded on the top of her head, on which 
she placed the “ quadrette,” square pieces of marble, and 
descended with them to the manufactory below. It was 
a mile from the bottom to the top, and she spun as she 
ascended the mountain, and then returned with her 
« quadrette .” A mile up and a mile back, made each 
trip two miles long, She made seven a day, and received 
for each only three farthings . Thus she travelled four 
teen miles a day, and carried seven miles, a heavy stone, 
and received for it fivepence. I looked at her with 
astonishment. Her features and form were delicate, and. 
her voice and manner and all were so gentle and sweet, 
that I could not conceive for a moment that such a life 
of drudgery was her lot. \ et she seemed cheerful and 
happy. The wages of the men were about tenpenee 
per day. 

Carrara, which we took on our route, is perfectly en- 
gulphed in the mountains that furnish its marble. The 
day before we reached here we crossed the Bracco, one 
of the loftiest passes of the Appennines. A tremendous 
storm swept over it when we passed, and the wind 
threatened at times to lilt our carriage—wheels, horses, 
and all, and send us over the cliffs. The mist boiling up 
from the gulf below, yet concealing their depth—the 
desolate, naked ridges that would now and then cleave 
Its massive folds—the howling of the blast, and the deep 
darkness at mid-day, conspired to render it a scene of 
wild sublimity, and at times, of horror. But the ap¬ 
proach to Genoa the next day, along the side of the 
mountain, on a road winding midway from the sea to 
the summit, fully compensated for the gloom of the day 
before. The vexed Mediterranean had subsided to a 
gentle swell that fell with a low murmur far below us, 
as our carriage crawled like an insect along the steep 
breast of the mountain, while far away white sails were 
skimming the blue waves as though winged with life. 
After passing through several galleries cut through the 
solid marble, we at length emerged from the last in full 
sight of Genoa, and the whole riviera between us and it. 
Its white palaces and towers at that distance, and seen 
through that tunnel, looked like a city beheld through a 
a show-glass, rather than real stone and marble. 

Truly yours. 


TRAVELS IN ITALY, 


213 


XLIV. 


King of Sardinia, Contempt of Him. Censorship of the Press. A 

Smuggling Priest. 

Genoa. 

Dear E.—I designed to stop here with my friend during 
the summer, and then, perhaps, go to Egypt and Pales¬ 
tine in the winter, but this climate is poison to me—and 
here let me say to those who visit Italy for their health, 
to ascertain well beforehand what ails them. For invalids 
of a certain character, such as those troubled with pul¬ 
monary affections, this climate will doubtless often be 
found very beneficial, but to dyspeptics, and those af¬ 
flicted with the whole tribe of nervous diseases, it is the 
very worst climate they could possibly visit. The air is 
too stimulating, and produces constant excitement where 
the very reverse is needed. The consequence is, that 
most of the Italians themselves, who in our country 
would be nervous dyspeptics, are here lunatics. A sen¬ 
sitive nervous system cannot endure the stimulating air and 
diet of Italy. I have tried it for nearly a year, and now 
leave it sooner than I designed, and far worse than when 
I entered it. So you may expect to hear next from me at 
Milan. 

The King has just left the city, not particularly pleased, 
I should judge, with his reception. This traitor, and 
Jesuit, and religious bigot, and tyrant, is looked upon by 
the Genoese about as favourably as the angels look on 
Satan. The streets were filled with people, but scarcely 
one of the upper classes was among them. The Royal. 
Palace stands on Strada Balbi, just above the University, 
and the King condescended to walk down the street past 
it. The students stood in the door and court with their 
hats on, and as his Majesty passed, coolly turned their 
backs on him. A year ago the people gave him an illumi¬ 
nation, and when the nobles and authority of the city 
sent to know his feeliDgs on the proposed reception, he 
simply returned for an answer, ‘‘the King deigns to 


214 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


grant the illumination.” This was a little too much for 
the republican Genoese. 

But he is only a part in the tyrannical system. The 
censorship of the press is very strict, and is managed by 
three commissioners—one from the church, to look after 
the heresy—one from the army, and one from the civil 
department. The wife of our Charge related an 
amusing incident of the operation of this censorship, on 
a luckless young author. He had written a work for his 
own fame, and hence endeavoured to steer clear of all 
collision with the censors. But unfortunately, and very 
probably merely to show that he understood a little 
English, he quoted two lines from Campbell’s “ Pleasures 
of Hope,” (1 quote from memory)— 


“ The earth was waste and Eden was a wild. 
And man the hermit sighed till woman smiled.” 


On these two lines the book was condemned. It con¬ 
tained English heresy. The poor author was thunder¬ 
struck at the result, and could not divine the error con¬ 
tained in this harmless couplet. But the sharp eye of the 
priest saw in it a stab at the celibacy of the clergy, and 
the old Jesuit was right enough. It was the simplest 
thing in the world to prove it. If in Eden, surrounded 
with all the beauty and bloom of Paradise, the perfect 
Adam grew lonesome, and strolled around the bright 
walks of the garden sighing for a woman, how wretched 
must the priest be in our degenerate state, without one. 

There is a priest here I often walk with. One day we 
went without the city walls and strolled off towards a 
little settlement, when to my surprise, he went into a 
butcher’s shop and bought two pieces of meat, and 
stuffed them into a sort of pea-jacket he had put on under 
his priestly robe. I asked him why he came so far out of 
the city to purchase meat. “ Oh,” he said, “ to save 
duty. There is five francs duty, for instance, on every 
calf that is brought within the walls, which makes meat 
very high.” “But,” I replied, “this is smuggling, and 
are you not afraid of being detected?” “No,” he said, 
“ they would not think of searching me, and if they did, 
they could do no more than take it away from me.” 
Conversing of other things I soon forgot all about the 
meat, but not so my friend, the priest. After we had 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


215 


passed the second gate and were fairly in the city, he 
stopped, and said in English, (which he was very anxious 
to speak,) “ E—av escap — ed — iviv — salvation .” Mean¬ 
ing he had got through safe. The pulpit phrase, however, 
in which he announced it completely upset my gravity, 
and I laughed outright. Thinks I to myself, “ Old fellow, 
your salvation will have to depend very much, I am 
afraid, on the smuggling principle at last.” 

* * * * * 

I have just been called to hasten to my friend L-, who 

has been suddenly taken with bleeding at the lungs. 

Truly yours. 


XLV. 

Allassandria. Batttle-Field of Marengo. Pavia. Milan. 


Milan. 

Dear E. —I have been four days on the way to Milan^ 
in order to visit the battle-field of Marengo, which is half 
a day’s journey out of the way. I was struck with the 
care taken of the road over the Apennines. It is not only 
smooth, and in excellent order, but men are stationed at 
certain intervals during the summer months to wet it 
once a day as we do Broadway, to keep the dust down. 
We should regard this at home an entire waste of labour. 

We did not arrive at Marengo in time to visit the field 
that evening, so passed on to Allessandria, where wo 
stopped over night. This is the strongest fortified inland 
place I have ever seen. Well manned and provisioned, 
it would be impossible to take it. It is a singular city, 
and soldiers seem to form the majority of the population. 
The peasantry that come in at morning to sell fruit, et 
cetera , are a squalid-looking race. 

The field of Marengo, is not, like most other modern 
battle grounds, overrun with guides, who tell you some 
truth and a good deal of fable. It is left undisturbed, and 
not a guide can be found. Few visit it, and I found a writ¬ 
ten description I had in my pocket indispensable. This 
was one of those battles where Bonaparte escaped, as by a 



216 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


miracle, utter defeat. The Austrians were full 40,000 
strong, while Napoleon could muster but little more than 
half that number. Napoleon formed three lines ; one in 
advance of Marengo at Padre Buona; one at Marengo ; 
and one behind this little hamlet, which indeed consists 
of scarcely more than half a dozen houses. The first line 
was under Gardonne ; the second under Victor; and the 
third commanded by Napoleon in person. It is a broad 
plain, with nothing to intercept the charge of cavalry for 
miles, beside scattering trees and huts ; with the excep¬ 
tion of a narrow, but deep stream, with a miry bottom, 
that passes directly in front of Marengo. Here Victor 
stood. The Austrian heavy infantry formed in the open 
field and came down on Gardonne, driving him back on 
Victor, posted on the other side of the ravine. The 
tiralleurs of both armies were ranged on opposite sides 
of this stream, and there, with the muzzles of their pieces 
almost touching, stood and fired into each other’s faces 
and bosoms for two hours. It did not seem possible, as I 
stood by that stream, so narrow I could almost leap 
across it, that two armies could stand for that length of 
time, so close to each other, and steadily tire at each 
other. They were but a few rods apart; and the cannon 
and musketry together, swept down whole ranks of 
living men. At length the indomitable Victor was com¬ 
pelled to retire before such a superior force, and fell back 
on Lannes, who was advancing to meet him. The two 
formed a second line of defence, but the furious charge of 
the Austrians drove them back; while General Elsnitz 
having marched around, attacked him on the right flank, 
and began to pour squadron after squadron of his 
splendid cavalry on the retreating columns of Lannes. 
But the stern hero immediately formed his troops “ en 
echelon ,” and retired without confusion. But the retreat 
had become general, and had the Austrian commander 
Melas pushed the battle here, nothing short of a miracle 
could have saved Bonaparte from utter ruin. But he 
thought the battle already won, and that it was now 
only a pursuit, and retired to the rear, weary and ex¬ 
hausted ; and no wonder, for he was eighty-four years of 
age. But at that moment, Desaix appeared on the field, 
bringing up the reserve. Desaix rode up to Bonaparte 
and said, “ I think this must be put down as a battle lost.” 
u I think it is a battle won,” replied Napoleon; “push 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


217 


on, and I will rally the line behind you.” Riding along 
the army he had just stayed in its rapid retreat, he said, 
“ Soldiers, we have retired far enough—let us now- 
advance—you know it is my custom to sleep on the field 
of battle.” At that moment Desaix led on a fresh column 
of 5000 grenadiers, but at the first fire he fell dead, shot 
through the heart. “ Alas! it is not permitted me to 
weep,” said Napoleon. “ On!” and they did on, sweep¬ 
ing line after line, till the whole army was routed, and 
the battle became, a slaughter. The Austrian cavalry 
fell back on their own infantry, trampling them to the 
earth ; while the French horse charged like fire over the 
broken columns. The routed army at length reached the 
Bormida, and were precipitated down its steep banks till 
its stream was choked with the bodies of men and horses,, 
rolled by thousands into its purple flood. 

Bonaparte’s star was still in the ascendant. 

How changed was the scene as I looked upon it. The 
herdsman was watching his herd on the quiet plain, and 
the careless husbandman driving his plough through the 
earth, once heaped with the dead. The Bormida looked 
as if it never had received a slain army in its bosom, nor 
its bright waters been discoloured with the blood of men. 

That night we slept at Pavia, where we arrived late 
and weary, having been detained in crossing the Po. The 
next morning we took Certosa in our way. The church 
and buildings standing alone and with no village near, 
present a singular, yet most magnificent appearance. 
They cover ground enough to hold a large village, and 
there is on the high altar precious stones enough to build 
a dozen churches. One altar piece is composed entirely of 
the teeth of the hippopotamus. I thought I would de¬ 
scribe this one church to you—built by a rich villain to 
atone for his piracies and robberies—but I believe I’ll not 
attempt it. 

I have now been several days in Milan. The Marengo 
gate is beautiful, and so are the “ Place d'Armes ,” and 
the promenade—but I have an eye only for the Cathedral; 
it impresses me more than St. Peter’s, though differently. 
St. Peter’s is a magnificent temple —the Milan Cathedral, 
a magnificent church . Its beautiful Gothic architecture, 
and its hundreds of statues on the outside alone, and the 
whole fabric of white marble, do not affect me so much 
as the solemn interior. The lofty nave, and immense co» 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


21S 

lumns—the setting sun streaming through its stained 
windows—and the gathering gloom of twilight, together 
with the pealing organ, have subdued me more than I 
thought I could be subdued by mere external causes. 
Every evening finds me there, wandering up and down 
over the marble pavement, till the worshippers one after 
another disappear, and the deeper darkness shuts out the 
magnificent proportions that so charm the eye and the 
spirit. 

For effect it is superior to any Church or Cathedral I 
ever entered. 

Truly yours. 


XLVI. 

Character of the People. 

Milan. 

Dear E. —Perhaps you would ask me what I now 
think of Italian character. I should answer that my 
first impressions had changed very little. The Italian 
women I have spoken of before. The men are more 
polite than Americans, and more polished. They treat 
strangers with greater kindness, and receive them with 
truer hospitality. Friendships, too, are more frequent 
and warmer among them than with us. Indeed, I have 
often wondered why in our country, where there are such 
strong domestic and social ties, there were not closer 
friendships among men—they are scarcely known in the 
higher, purer sense. Here, on the contrary, friendships 
are constantly contracted, marked by the intensest af¬ 
fection and self-sacrifice. I have often watched, in my 
own country, with a sort of stupid amazement, two men 
who had been very intimate in prosperity, suddenly grow 
quite indifferent when misfortune had overtaken one. A 
friend lets an unfortunate friend struggle on in poverty, 
without ever thinking of sacrificing a few thousand 
dollars, if by it he should circumscribe his own enjoy¬ 
ments. No one complains of the justice of this, but it 
certainly shows a want of that high generous affection, 
which is worth more to a man than money. 

There is a great deal of intellect in Italy, and a great 


TRAVELS IN ITALY 


219 


many bold, decided men, bat the mass cannot be relied 
upon. The Italians want the steadiness of the English^ 
while they have not the headlong impetuosity of tha 
French. Hence, they shrink from great emergencies, and 
perfer the present evils that afflict them, to greater evils 
they may encounter, in shaking off the tyranny under 
which they groan. Yet there is courage here, if it could 
only be rightly managed. Whether Italy will ever as-* 
sume her proper place again among the nations of tha 
earth, is very doubtful. If she does, she will be the first 
nation that has grown old with decay and again become 
regenerated. In this respect, nations follow the law of 
human life. If age once seizes upon them, they never 
grow young again. They must first die, and have an en¬ 
tirely new birth. Every thing here is old. Cities, houses, 
churches, and all are old. The whole economy of out¬ 
ward physical life must be radically changed, to fit the 
spirit, that is now abroad in the world. Italy was great 
in a peculiar age, and she cannot cope with those which 
&re the birth of another age, filled with another spirit and 
principle of action. Indeed, I have no hope in the multitude 
of conspiracies and outbreaks with which Italy is filled. 
The struggling spirit is not strong enough, or at least 
cannot be sufficiently combined. The poor and suffering 
have become too poor. They are beggars, that do not 
care enough for liberty to fight for it. Besides, those 
who should guide the popular will seem to lack the 
steady energy that inspires confidence. The love of 
pleasure and its pursuit takes from the manliness of the 
Italian character, so necessary to a republican form of 
government. 

The northern provinces are far better in this respect 
than the 1 southern. In Genoa, for instance, there is a 
great deal of nerve and stern republicanism remaining, 
which may yet recal the days of Spinola. Let the police 
over her be as lax as teat of Tuscany, and it would not 
he long before she would be a republic again. 

The Catholic religion is most certainly losing ground 
here; perhaps I should not say this particular form of reli¬ 
gion, so much as the power of the priests. The people 
think more for themselves than formerly, and laugh at 
the tricks of the priests which they formerly fully be¬ 
lieved. Whatever the catechism may say, intelligent 
Catholics do not believe in the Pope’s infallibility any 


220 


TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


more than we believe in the infallibility of our President } 
and the multitude of friars and monks are openly scorned. 
There is a growing contempt for the whole priesthood, 
and a strong disrelish to the tax which the church levies 
on the pocket. The men pay less and less attention to 
the public ceremonies of the church, and we should call 
corresponding action at home scepticism. And the in¬ 
evitable result, I think, of the present form of religion, 
will be to spread infidelity. Thus, while Catholicism, by 
adapting itself to the institutions of every new country 
into which it introduces itself, gains a foothold and 
spreads ; it loses in its own land, by adhering to its old 
superstitions and nonsense, which the spirit of the age 
condemns. Italy is now nearly half infidel, and we do 
not believe Paris itself is more given to infidelity than 
the very seat of his holiness— Rome. 

What this infidelity will work, is more than we can 
tell. What influence it will have on political matters, 
will depend on circumstances, which no one can foresee 
or predict. But one thing, we think, is certain, however 
much the Catholic religion may prevail; the Pope will 
constantly lose power, till his spiritual will become what 
his temporal throne now is, a mere shadow. Literature 
is doing something to effect a change, both in religion 
and government. Lucien Bonaparte, son of Joseph 
Bonaparte, has been instrumental in getting up the 
Scientific Congress of Milan, composed of distinguished 
literary men from every part of the Continent, which 
meets annually in different parts of Italy. It is too 
imposing a body to be crushed, while its discussions and 
publications give both the Pope and the petty despots of 
the provinces much uneasiness. This same Bonaparte, or 
Prince de C’anino, as he is called, is doing much for 
liberty. With his black hair and moustache, black 
piercing eyes, and corpulent body, and shuffling gait, he 
goes about smiling to all, and beloved by all, while the 
republican principles of the French Revolution continually 
prompt him to act, where he can, with safety, for the 
redemption of the land of his fathers. 

Truly yours. 


END OF TRAVELS IN ITALY. 


THE 

ALPS AND THE RHINE; 


A SERIES OF SKETCHES 


BY 


J. T. HEADLEY. 








INTRODUCTION. 


In the present work I have not designed to make a book of 
travels, but give a series of sketches of the Alpine portion of 
Switzerland, and the scenery along the Rhine. In writing of 
Switzerland, I have omitted almost altogether notices of the 
character of the people, except of those occupying the valleys 
of the Alps. Neither have I spoken of the chief cities, and 
towns of the country, except to make a passing remark. I ex¬ 
cluded all such matter, because I wished, if possible, to give a 
definite idea of the scenery of the Alps. Having an uncon¬ 
querable desire from my boyhood to see the land of Tell and 
Winkelried, I had read everything I could lay hold of, that 
would give me clear conceptions of the wonderful scenery it 
embraces, yet I found that my imagination had never ap¬ 
proached the reality. 

Hoping to do what others had failed in accomplishing, I 
confess was the motive in my attempting these sketches. It 
always seemed strange to me, that such marked, striking fea¬ 
tures in natural scenery could fail of being caught and de¬ 
scribed. Such bold outlines, and such distinct figures, it 
seemed a mere pastime to reproduce before the eye. And 
even now, of all the distinct things memory recalls, none ap¬ 
pear more clear and definite than the scenes of the Alps. But, 
notwithstanding all this, I need not add that I am as much 
dissatisfied with my own efforts as with those of others. The 
truth is, the Alps are too striking and grand to be described. 
We get a definite idea of very few things in the world we have 
never seen, by mere naked details. This is especially true of 
those objects that excite emotion. It is by comparing them 
to more familiar and greater things, that we conceive them 
properly. Indeed, the imagination is generally so much 



CCXXIV 


INTRODUCTION. 


weaker than the bodily eye, that exaggeration is required to 
bring up the perceptive faculties to the proper point. 

But the Alps have nothing beyond them—nothing greater 
with which to compare them. They alone can illustrate 
themselves. Comparisons diminish them, and figures of speech 
only confuse the mind. This I believe to be the reason why 
every one becomes dissatisfied with his own descriptions. To 
give lofty conceptions of mountain scenery before he has been 
accustomed to call it Alpine. The Alps are called in to il¬ 
lustrate all other mountains and lofty peaks, and hence when 
he comes to describe the former, he is at a loss for metaphors 
and comparisons. The words grand, awful, sublime, have 
been used to describe scenery so far inferior to that which 
now meets his eye, that he would reject them as weak and 
expressionless, were there any others he could employ. I have 
never felt the need of stronger Saxon more than when stand¬ 
ing amid the chaos of an Alpine abyss, or looking off from the 
summit of an Alpine peak. Like the attempt to utter a man’s 
deepest emotions, words for the time shock him. I am aware 
this may be attributed to a sensitive imagination. Some may 
boast that they have stood perfectly tranquil, and at their 
ease in every part of the Alps. I envy not such a man his 
self-possession, nor his tranquil nature. He who can wander 
through the Oberland without being profoundly moved, and 
feeling as Coleridge did when he lifted his hymn in the vale 
of Chamouni, need not fear that he will ever be greatly ex¬ 
cited, either by the grand or beautiful with which God has 
clothed the world. 

The Rhine I have passed over more hastily, and devoted 
less space to it, because its scenes are more familiar, as well 
as more tame. If I shall add to the reader’s conceptions of 
Alpine scenery—give any more vivid ideas of its amazing 
grandeur, more definite outl ines to those wonderful forms of 
nature, I shall have accomplished my purpose. My object 
in grouping, as I have, the most remarkable objects together^ 
to the exclusion of every thing else, was, if possible, to do 
this. Still they must be seen to be known. 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


i. 


PASS OF THE SIMPLON, GORGE OF GONDO. 

Coming from the warm air of the South, the first sight of 
the Alps gave a spring to my blood that it had not felt 
for years. Egypt and Palestine I had abandoned, and 
weary and depressed, I turned as a last resort to the 
Alps and their glorious scenery. As I came on to Lake 
Maggiore, I was, as we should say at home, “down 
sick.” A severe cold, accompanied with fever, rendered 
me as indifferent to the scenery the evening I approached 

-, as if I were on the confines of a desert. But the 

morning found me myself again, and the clear lake com¬ 
ing from under the feet of the everlasting Alps, and 
peeping out into the valley as if to see how the plains of 
Lombardy looked, was as welcome as the face of a friend. 
Born myself amid mountains, I had loved them from boy¬ 
hood. I looked out from our carriage on the Borromean 
Isles, terraced up in the form of. a pyramid from the 
water, with their dark fringe of cypresses, without one 
wish to visit them. I did not care whether they were an. 
“ espece de creation ,” or “ a huge perigord pie stuck round 
with woodcocks and partridges. The soft air revived 
me, and the breeze that stooped down from the snow 
summits of the Alps, that glittered far up in the clear 
heavens above me, was like a new fountain of blood 
opened in my system. I left the carriage, and wandered 
off to the quarries of pink granite among the mountains. 

p 



226 SKETCHES OP 

After listening awhile to the clink of the miner’s hammer; 
far up in the breast of the rock, and gathering a few crys¬ 
tals, I returned to the lake, and passing underneath a 
mountain of stone, from whose summit workmen were 
blasting rocks that fell with the noise of thunder into the 
road, sending their huge fragments over into the lake- 
rejoined the carriage at a dirty inn. The crystal-like 
clearness of the water, and the mountains around, re¬ 
minded me of the wilder parts of the Delaware, where I 
had hooked many a trout, and thinking they ought to be 
found on such gravelly bottoms, I inquired of the land¬ 
lord if I could have trout for dinner. He replied yes, and 
when the speckled fish was brought on the table, it was 
like the sight of an old friend. The flesh, however, did 
not have the freshness and flavour of those caught in our 
mountain streams. It may have been owing to the cook¬ 
ing—probably it was. After dinner we started up the 
narrow valley that leads to the foot of the Simplon. It 
was as lovely an afternoon as ever made the earth smile. 
Grey, barren pyramids of rock pierced the clear heavens 
on either side, while the deep quiet of the valley was 
broken only by the narrow streamlet that sparkled 
through it. Here and there was a small meadow spot 
from which the dwarfish peasantry were harvesting the 
hay. Women performed the office of team and cart. A 
huge basket that would hold nearly as much as an ordi¬ 
nary hay-cock, was filled, when a woman inserted herself 
into straps fastened to it, and taking it on her back, 

walked away with it. ... 

As it takes twelve good hours to cross the Simplon, 
travellers are compelled to stop overnight at Domo 
D’Osola, the last village before its ascent commences. _ I 
will not describe the dirty town with its smell of garlic, 
nor the red-capped,” i( mahogany-legged,” lazy lazzarom 
that lounged through the street. Only one thing interested 
me in it. There is a hill near by called Calvary, with 
small white buildings stationed at intervals from the bottom 
to the top. Each of these is occupied with terra-cotta 
(earthen) figures representing our Saviour in the different 
stages of his sufferings ;—from the trial before Pilate to 
the last agony on the cross. Through an iron grating I 
looked in upon the strange groups, amid which, on the 
earth-floor, were scattered several small copper coins* 
thro tvn there by the faithful. In one, the ceiling of the 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


22? 

building was concave, and painted blue to represent hea- 
ven. On this angels were painted large as life, and re¬ 
presented as hovering over the suffering Christ—while 
they had—babies and all—white handkerchiefs in their 
hands, which they held to their eyes quite d la mode. It 
did not strike ine at first so odd that they should use 
handkerchiefs in heaven, as that such beggarly-looking 1 
angels should afford such nice white ones. 

But the Simplon. Nature, that wore the day before, 
her loveliest, had now put on her angriest aspect. A 
more glorious to-morrow was never promised to man, 
than the sun uttered as he went down at evening amid 
the Alps. There was not a cloud to dim his brightness, 
while the transparent atmosphere and the deep blue sky 
seemed dreaming of anything but clouds and mists. But 
who can foretell the whim of an Alpine sky! As we en¬ 
tered the mountains the day grew dark, and from the deep 
gorge that pierced their heart, the mist boiled out like the 
foam of a waterfall. Clouds veiled the giant peaks 
around, and the rain came down as if that were its sole 
business for the day. Tae torrent had carried away the 
road in some places, and we rolled slowly over the bed of 
the stream. At length we entered the gorge of Gondo, 
one of the most savage and awful in the Alps. This day 
it was rendered doubly so by the black Alpine storm that 
swept through it. Tne road was here squeezed into the* 
narrowest space, while the perpendicular rocks rose out 
of sight into the rain-clouds on either side, and the fretting 
torrent struggled throughits torn channel far belo w. The 
gallery of Gondo, cut 593 feet through the solid rock, 
opens like a cavern over this gulf. Stand here a minute 
and look down the gorge. Those perpendicular walls of 
nature pierce the heavens so high, that but a narrow 
strip of tossing clouds is visible, as the blast puffs away 
for a moment the mist that wrapped them in such close 
embrace. A waterfall is sounding in your ears, covering 
the breast of the hill with foam, and filling the cavern 
with the sullen sound of thunder. Torrents leaping frotn 
the mountain tops, vanish in spray before they strike the 
bottom. The clouds roll through the gorge, and knock 
agaiast the walls that hem them in; and then catching 
the down-sweeping gust, spring over their tops, revealing 
for a moment the head of a black crag far up where you. 
thought the sky to be, and then dashing over its face 


223 


SKETCHES OF 


•wrap it again in deeper gloom. All around is horribly 
•wild—the howl of the storm—the hissing of the blast 
around the cliffs—the roar of countless cataracts, and the 
hoarse voice of the distracted waters that rush on, and 
the awful solitude and strength that hem you in—make 
the soul stagger and shrink back in unwonted fear and 
awe. Nature and God seem one—Power and Sublimity 
their only attributes, and these everlasting peaks their 
only dwelling-place. 1 would let the carriage, that 
looked like a mere toy among these giant forms of nature, 
disappear among the rolling mist, and then stuud on 
a beetling crag and listen. It was the strangest, wildest 
music my soul ever bowed to, and the voices that spoke 
so loudly around me had such an accent and power that 
my heart stood still in my bosom. I grew nervous there 
alone, and felt as if I had not room to breathe. Just then, 
turning my eye up the gorge, the clouds parted over a 
smooth snow-field that lay, white and calm, leagues 
away against the heavens. Oh, it was a relief to know 
there was one calm thing amid that distracted scene 
one bosom the tempest could not ruffle ; it told of a Deity 
ruling serene and tranquil above his works and laws. 

As we approached the summit, the snow increased in 
depth. In one place the road passed directly through an 
old avalanche cut out like a tunnel. These avalanches 
have paths they travel regularly as deer. The shape of 
the mountains decides the direction they shall take, and 
hence enables the traveller to know when he is in danger. 
They also always give premonitions of their fall. Before 
they start there is a low humming sound in the air, which 
the practised ear can detect in a moment. If you are in 
the path of avalanches when this mysterious warning is 
passing through the atmosphere, you cannot make too 
good use of your legs. A few days before we passed, the 
diligence was broken into fragments by one of these de¬ 
scending masses of snow. As it was struggling through 
the deep drifts right in front of one of those gorges where 
avalanches fall, the driver heard this low ringing sound 
in the hills above him. Springing from his seat, he threw 
open the door, crying, “ Run for your life! an avalanche ! 
an avalanche!” and drawing his knife he severed the 
traces of the horses, and bringing them a blow with his 
whip, sprang ahead. All this was the work of a single 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 229 

minute; the next minute the diligence was in fragments, 
crushed and buried by the headlong mass. 

The top of the Simplon is a dreary field of snow and 
ice, girded round with drearier rocks. The hospice is 
large and comfortable, and does credit to its founder, 
Bonaparte; and the Prior is a fat, very handsome, and 
good-natured man. I had a regular romp with one of the 
San Bernard dogs, who would run and leap on me like a 
tiger, barking furiously as he came, but harmless as a 
kitten in his frolics. To amuse us, the Prior let out four 
of them from their confinement. No sooner did they find 
themselves free, than they dashed down the steps of the 
hospice, and bounding into the snow, made the top of 
the Simplon ring again with their furious barkings. After 
we had wandered over the building awhile, and made 
enquiries respecting lost travellers in winter, the good 
Prior set before us some bread and a bottle of wine, from 
which we refreshed ourselves and prepared to depart. 
We had scarcely begun to descend towards the Vallais, 
when I discovered, straight down through the gorge, a 
little village with its roofs and church spire, looking like 
a miniature town there at the end and bottom of the 
abyss. Confident there was no town between the top of 
the Simplon and Brieg, lying nearly twenty miles distant 
at the base, and thinking this could not be that town, 
sunk there apparently within rifle-shot of where I stood, 
I enquired of the vetturino what place it was. “ Brieg,” 
he replied. “Brieg?” I exclaimed: “ why that is six 
hours’ drive from here, and I can almost throw a stone in 
that place.” “ You will find it far enough before we get 
there,” he replied, and with that we trotted on. Back¬ 
wards and forwards, now running along the edge of a 
.gulf deep into the mountains and under overhanging 
glaciers, till it grew narrow enough to let a bridge be 
thrown across; and now shooting out on to some pro¬ 
jecting point that looked down on shuddering depths, the 
road wound like a snake in its difficult passage among 
the rocks. Houses of refuge occur at short intervals to 
succour the storm-caught traveller; and over the road, 
as it cuts the breast of some steep hill that shows an un¬ 
broken sheet of snow, up—up, till the summit seems lost 
in the heavens, are thrown arches on which the ava¬ 
lanches may slide over into the gulf below. Over some 
of these arches torrents were now roaring from the 


230 


SKETCHES OF 


melting mass above. Calm glaciers on high, and angry 
torrents below; white snow-fields covering thousands of 
acres on distant mountain-tops, and wrecks of avalanches, 
crushed at the base of the precipice on which you stand ; 
£11 the mind with a succession of feelings that can never 
be recalled or expressed. It seems as if nature tried to 
overwhelm the awe-struck and humbled man in her 
presence, by crowding scene after scene of awful magni¬ 
ficence upon him. 

We stopped at Brieg all night in a most contemptible 
inn. It was some fete day or other of the thousand and 
one Catholic saints, and the streets were strewed with 
evergreens, while nearly every second man had a sprig in 
bis hat. The streets were filled with peasantry sauntering 
lazily about in the evening air, and I leaned from my 
window and watched them as supper was cooking. 
There a group went loitering about singing some careless 
song I could not understand, while nearer by were two 
peasants, a young man and maiden, with their arms 
around each other's waists, strolling silently along in the 
increasing twilight. 

At Brieg you enter on the Vallais and follow the Rhone 
on its tranquil course for Lake Leman. Its waters were 
yet turbid from their long struggle in the mountains, and 
flowed heavily through the valley. Along this we trotted 
all day, and stopped at night at Sion. If Mount Sion in 
Jerusalem is not a better place than this, the Arabs are 
Welcome to it. The falls of Tourtemagne, which you 
pass on the road, are very beautiful, trom the curve and 
swing of the descending water, caused by the peculiar 
shape of the rocks; and those of Sallenche grand and 
striking. The long single leap of the torrent is 120 feet, 
and as you stand under it, the descending water has the 
appearance of the falling fragments of a rocket after it 
has burst. The spray that boils from its feet rises like a 
cloud, and drifting down the fields, passes like a fog over 
the road. 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


231 


II. 

PASSES OF THE FORCLAZ AND COL DE 

BALM. 

From Martigny, where we arrived at noon from Sion, a 
mule path leads over the Forclaz, from which one can 
look back on the whole valley of the Rhone, one of the 
most picturesque views in Switzerland. After following 
awhile the route of Bonaparte’s army, on its march from 
Martigny across the San Bernard, we turned off to the 
right, and began to ascend the Forclaz. Here I first 
tested the world-renowned qualities of the mule, amid 
the Alpine passes; and I must say I did not find the one 
I was on so very trustworthy. Passing along the brink 
of a precipice, I thought he went unnecessarily near the 
edge, but concluding he knew his own business best, I 
let him take his own way. Suddenly his hinder foot 
slipped over—he fell back, struggled a moment, while a 
cry of alarm burst from my companions behind—rallied, 
and passed on demurely as ever. For a few moments it 
was a question of considerable doubt whether I was to 
have a roll with my mule some hundred feet into the 
torrent below, with the fair prospect of a broken neck 
and a mangled carcase, or cross the Forclaz. I learned 
one lesson by it, however, never to surrender my own 
judgment again, not even to a mule. We at length de¬ 
scended into the very small hamlet of Trient, nestled 
down among the pines. After refreshing ourselves after 
a most primitive fashion, with some plain white pine 
boards, nailed together something after the manner of 
a workman’s bench for a table, I told our guide I must 
cross the Col de Balm. He replied it was impossible. 
*‘No one,” said he, “has crossed it this year except the 
mountaineer and hunter. The p*th by which travellers 
always cross it is utterly impassible; not even a chamois 
hunter could follow it; besides, it rained last night, 
which has made the snow so soft, one would sink in leg- 
deep at every step, and I cannot attempt it.” This was 


SKETCHES OF 


232 

a damper, for I had thought more of making this pass 
than any other in the Alps. Still, I was fully resolved 
to do it, if it was in the reach of possibility, because 
from its summit was said to be one of the finest views in 
the world. So walking around the hamlet, I accosted a 
hardy-looking Swiss, and asked him if he could guide 
me over the Col de Balm. He replied that the ordinary 
route was impassible, being entirely blocked with snow; 
but that there was a gorge reaching nearly to the top of 
the pass, now half filled with the wrecks of avalanches, 
which he thought might be travelled. At least, said he, 
I am willing to try, and if we cannot succeed, we can 
return. I took him at his word, and returning, told my 
friends that I was going to cross the Col de Balm, but 
that I was unwilling to take the responsibility of urging 
them to accompany me, for I was convinced the passage 
would be one of great fatigue, if not of danger. I 
then called the guide, and told him to meet me with the 
mules about fifteen miles ahead, at Argentiere. He 
looked at me a moment, shook his head, and turned 
away, saying, “ Je vous conseille do ne pas aller .” “ Je 
vous conseille de ne pas aller.” I hesitated a moment, for 
my guide-book said, “ Always obey your guide,” and 
farther on stated, that on this very pass a young German 
lost his life by refusing to obey his. I did not want to be 
rash, or expose myself unnecessarily to danger, but one 
of the finest views in the world was worth an effort; so 
stripping off my coat and vest, I bade my fearful guide 
good-bye, and taking a pole in my hand for a cane started 
off. My friends concluded to follow. Immediately on 
leaving the valley we entered on the debris of avalanches, 
which fortunately bore us. It was a steady pull, hour 
after hour, mile after mile, up this pathless mass of snow, 
that seemed to go like the roof of a house, at an un¬ 
broken angle of forty-five degrees, up and up, till the 
eye wearied with the prospect. My friends gave out the 
first hour, while I, though the weakest of the party, 
seemed to gain strength the higher I ascended. The 
cold rare atmosphere acted like a powerful stimulant on 
my sensitive nervous system, rendering me for the time 
insensible to fatigue. I soon distanced my friends, while 
my guide kept cautioning me to keep the centre of the 
gorge, so that I could flee either to one side or the other 
should an avalanche see fit to come down just at tha 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


233 


time I saw fit to pass. I pressed on, and soon lost sight 
of every living thing. The silent snow-fields and lofty 
peaks were around me, and the deep blue heavens bend¬ 
ing brightly over all. I thought I was near the top, 
when suddenly there rose right in my very face a cone 
covered with snow of virgin purity. I had sscended 
beyond the reach of avalanches, and stood on snow that 
lay as it had fallen. I confess I was for a moment dis¬ 
couraged and lonely. Near as this smooth, trackless 
height appeared, a broad inclined plain of soft snow was 
to be traversed before I could reach it. I sat down in 
the yielding mass and hallooed to my guide. I could 
hear the faint reply, far, far down the breast of the 
mountain, and at length caught a glimpse of his form 
bent almost double, and toiling like a black insect up the 
white acclivity. I telegraphed to him to know if I was 
to climb that smooth peak. He answered yes, and that 
I must keep to the right. I must confess I could see no 
particular choice in sides, but pressed on. The clean drifts 
hung along its acclivities'just as the wintry storm had 
left them, and every step sunk me in mid-leg deep. This 
was too much: I could not ascend the face of that 
peak of snow, direct; it was too steep; and I was com¬ 
pelled to go backwards and forwards in a zigzag di¬ 
rection to make any progress. At length, exhausted and 
panting, I fell on my face, and pressed my hot cheek to 
the cold snow. I felt as if I could not take another 
step; my breath became difficult and thick, from the 
straining efforts I was compelled to put forth at every 
step, while the perspiration streamed in torrents from 
my face and body. But a cold shiver just then passing 
through my frame, admonished me I had already lain too 
long; so whipping up my flagging spirits, I pushed on. 
A black spot at length appeared in the wide waste of 
snow. It was the deserted house of refuge, and I hailed 
it with joy, for I knew I was at the top. But, oh, as I 
approached the thing, dreary enough at best, and found 
it empty, the door broken down by the fierce storm, and 
the deserted room filled with snow-drifts, my heart died 
within me, and I gave a double shiver. I crept to the 
windward side of the dismal concern to shield myself from 
the freezing blast, which swept by without check, and 
seemed wholly unconscious that I had clothing on; and 
crouched meekly in the sunbeams. But as I looked up. 


SKETCHES OF 


234 


about and beneath me, what a wild, ruinous world of 
peaks and crags, and riven mountains, rose on my won¬ 
dering vision! 

Farther on, and lo, the sweet vale of Chamouni burst 
On the sight, lying in an irregular waving line along the 
Arve, that glittered like a silver chain in the light of the 
gun. Eight out of its quiet bosom towered away in 
awful majesty the form of Mont Blanc. Oh, what a 
chaos of mountain peaks seemed to tear up the very sky 
around him. The lofty “needles,” inaccessible to any 
thing buCthe wing of the eagle, shot up their piercing 
tops over glaciers that, rolled into confusion, went 
gtreaming, an ice-flood, into the plains below. How can 
I describe this scene. It seemed as if the Deity had 
once taken the chain from his wildest laws, to see what 
awful strength they could put forth, and what a chaos 
of mountains they could tumble together. High over 
all, with its smooth round top, stood Mont Blanc, like a 
monarch with his mountain guard around hin. Yet how 
silent and motionless were they all, as if in their holy 
Sabbath rest. No wonder Coleridge lifted his hymn in 
the Vale of Chamouni. Yet he should have looked on 
it from this spot. From no other point do you get the 
relative height of Mont Blanc. From the valley you 
lookup, and all the peaks seem nearly of an height: but 
here you look across and see how he stands like Saul 
among the Israelites—head and shoulders above all his 
brethren. The great difficulty in standing here is, the 
soul cannot expand to the magnitude of the scene. It is 
crushed and overwhelmed, and almost stupified. 

I plucked some flowers that lifted their modest heads 
from the margin of the snow, and began to ascend to¬ 
wards Chamouni. But as I went leaping down the 
white slope with a shout, I suddenly found myself 
hanging by the arms, while the dull sound of a torrent 
that swept my feet, made any but pleasant music in my 
ear. I had broken through the snow crust, and catching 
by my arms, was left dangling over a stream, the depth 
and breadth of which I had no desire to measure. The 
sudden change from my headlong speed and boisterous 
shouts, to the meek, demure look and manner with 
which I insinuated myself away from that unpleasant 
neighbourhood, set my companions into convulsions of 
laughter. 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


235 


A cloud that came drifting along the sky caught on 
Mont Blanc, and wrapped it from my sight. Ah, thought 
I, good night to Mont Blanc! But the sweet valley was 
left basking in the light of the setting sun. 

Hark! a low rumbling sound rises on the air, swelling 
to the full-voiced thunder. I turned, and lo! a precipice 
of ice had loogened itself from the mountain, and falling 
over, plunged, with a crash that shook the hills, into the 
plain below. I stood awe-struck and silent. It was 
the first avalanche I had heard, and its deep voice echoing 
amid those mountain solitudes awoke strange feelings 
■within me. The mass from which it had split was of a 
pale blue, contrasting beautifully with the dull white of 
the surrounding glacier. 

At Argentiere I found the guide and mules. Mounting, 
I rode slowly on, thinking of that Being who planned 
the globe, and heaved on high all its strong mountains, 
when a sudden cry from the guide attracted my atten¬ 
tion. He stood pointing to Mont Blanc. I looked up, 
and to my surprise, the cloud had rained itself away, and 
the top of the mountain was drawn with its bold outline 
against the clear heavens. The sun had set to me, but 
Mont Blanc was still looking down on his retiring light. 
And now over all its white form spread a pale rose 
colour, deepening gradually into a pink—the peaks 
around taking the same ruddy glow, while the giant 
shadows stretched their misshapen, black proportions 
over the vast snow-fields between. There they stood, a 
mass of rose-coloured snow mountains, towering away 
in the heavens: they had suddenly lost their massive 
strength and weight, and light as frost work, and appa¬ 
rently transparent as a rose-tinted shell, they seemed the 
fit home of spiritual beings. And then what serenity 
and silence over them all. There was none of the life 
and motion of flashing sunbeams; none of the glitter of 
light itself on mountain summits, but a deep quiet that 
seemed almost holy, resting there, as if that rose-tinted 
top was bathed in the mellow radiance that one might 
dream of as belonging to a sunset in heaven. My eye 
wandered down the now ethereal form of Mont Blanc 
till it rested on a wreath of fir-trees, whose deep green 
contrasted strangely with that pure rose-colour. I stood 
bewildered—it seemed a magic land. But the glorious 
Vision, like all beauty, was as transient as the hour that 


236 


SKETCHES OF 


gave it birth. Fainter and fainter again grew the tints 
till all passed away, and Mont Blanc stood white and cold 
and ghost-like against the evening sky. This was more 
than I expected to see, and what few travellers do see. 
Mont Blanc is chary of such exhibitions of himself. 

I lay down at night with my fancy too full of wild 
images to let me sleep soundly. Feverish and restless ; 
at midnight I arose and pushed open my window. All 
was silent as the great shadows around, save the sound 
of the torrent that rolled its turbid stream through the 
valley. The moon was hanging her crescent over the 
top of Mont Blanc, that stood like a model in the clear 
Jheavens, a fit throne for the stars that seemed flashing 
from its top. 


Ill, 

ASCENT OF THE MONTANVERTE, YALE OF 

CHAMOUNI. 

The day after I made the pass of the Col de Balme I 
ascended the Montanverte to the Mer de Glace. I will 
not weary you with a description of this frequently de¬ 
scribed yet ever strangely wild scene. I mention it only 
to show the simple process by which an Alpine guide 
sometimes descends a mountain. In climbing up our 
zigzag path in our previous ascent, I noticed an inclined 
plane of snow going straight up the mountain—the relics 
of the track of avalanches which had fallen during the 
winter and spring. In returning, the path came close to 
the top of this inclined plane, which went in a direct 
line to the path far below. A slide down this I saw 
would save nearly half a mile, so I sprang on to it, 
expecting a long, rapid, though perfectly safe descent 
down the mountain. But the surface was harder than I 
supposed, and I no sooner struck it than I shot away, 
like an arrow from a bow. I kept my feet for some time 
as I tacked and steered, or rather “ was tacked and 
steered,” straining every muscle to keep my balance, 
and striking my Alpine stock now on the right hand and 



THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


237 


now on the left; till exhausted, I fell headlong down 
the declivity, and went rolling, over and over, till I 
finally landed, with dizzy head and bruised limbs, amid 
broken rocks at the bottom. When I had gathered up 
my senses, I looked round for my companions, and lo, 
there was my friend, an English gentleman who had 
started at the same time, about midway of the slope. 
As he found himself shooting off so rapidly, he wheeled 
his back down the hill and fell on his hands. This was 
not sufficient, however, to arrest his progress, and he 
came on bear fashion, though at a slower rate. Despite 
my bruises, I lay amid the rocks and laughed. Our 
guide stood at the top, convulsed with laughter, till he 
saw us all safely landed, and then leaped on the inclined 
plane himself. Throwing one end of his Alpine stock 
behind him, he leaned almost his entire weight on it. 
The iron spike sinking in the ice and suow, checked the 
rapidity of his descent, and steered him at the same time, 
and he came to the bottom in a slow and gentle slide. 
So it is in this world : there is no man who cannot find 
those who will teach him on some points. 

When I reached the English hotel again I found I had 
overtasked myself: I began to suspect as much before I 
had half reached the top of Montanverte. After my ex¬ 
hausting tramp in the soft snow over the Col de Bulme I 
should have lain by a day, but my toilsome day’s work 
and wet feet both had not left me any worse, but on the 
contrary better—so I concluded to take it on foot up the 
Montanverte. I believe I should have refused to ride,, 
well or sick, when I came to know how matters stood 
about a guide and mules. We had hired a guide and 
mules at Martigny by the day; supposing, of course, we 
could use them at Chamouni. Acting on this belief, my 
companions, who had resolved to ride, ordered out their 
mules; when, to their astonishment, they were told that 
neither our guide nor our mules could be permitted to 
ascend the mountain. A Chamouni man and Chomouni 
mules go up the Montanverte or none. This is one of the 
many niggardly, petty contrivances one meets at every 
turn in Switzerland to wring money from the pockets of 
travellers. 

I should have done better to have rode even on those 
conditions, for I was completely fagged out at night, and 
with more bones aching than I before supposed I carried 


238 


SKETCHES OP 


in me. But after tossing awhile on my feverish couch, I 
at length fell asleep. How long I was in the land of 
oblivion I know not, but 1 awoke to recollection with 
the most vivid consciousness of possessing ten toes. 
Such exquisite pain I never before experienced. I turn¬ 
ed and twisted on my couch—gathered up my legs like a 
patriarch to die—held them in my hands—but all in vain: I 
could think of nothing but torture by slow fire. E /ery toe 
I possessed seemed to have been converted into a taper, 
which had been lighted, and was slowly burning away. 
At length I could endure the agony no longer, and rung 
the bell till I waked up one of the servants of the house. 
As he knocked at the door I bade him come in with 
an emphasis that only made his entrance more studied 
and careful. “ What is the matter, sir?” he enquired in 
the most provokingly quiet tone, “ Matter!” I exclaim¬ 
ed, as I thrust both feet out of the bed, “ I want you to 
tell me what is the matter. You know all the strange 
diseases of this infamous country, and I want you to 
know what has ,got into my feet.” He looked at my 
swollen, angry toes a moment, aud replied with a most 
bland smile, “ Oh, you have blistered your feet—they are 
snow blistered.” Saying this he left the room, and in a 
few moments returned with some brandy in a saucer, 
into which he dropped several drops of tallow from his 
candle, and then rubbed my feet with the mixture. In a 
few minutes I was relieved, and soon after fell into a 
half-dreamy state, with a dim consciousness there was 
music around me. At length, clear, mellow notes of a 
horn came swelling on my ear. I started up, and looking 
from my window, saw a shepherd driving his goats to 
their mountain pasturage. It was early dawn, and as 
the Alpine strain he blew echoed up the vale of Chamouni, 

I turned to my pillow again, while my early dreams of 
the land of the Swiss, with all the distinctness and fresh¬ 
ness of their spring-time, came back on my memory. 

I have given the above particular account of my blis¬ 
tered feet, and their cure, for the sake of those who may 
make pedestrian excursions on the Alps. With the first 
symptoms of sore feet, the application of brandy with 
tallow dropped in should be made, ahd much suffering 
will be escaped. 

Taking one evening a stroll down the vale of Cha- 
mouni, just as the sun was tinging the Alpine summits 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE, 


239 


with his farewell glories, I came upon one of those un¬ 
fortunate beings from whom the light of reason has fled. 
Her hat was loaded down with wild flowers, and grass, 
and sprigs of every description, while she was toying 
with a bunch of flowers she held in her hand. As I stood 
leaning against a wall, she came up and offered me some, 
talking at the same time in a patois made up apparently 
of a half dozen languages, scarcely a word of which I 
could understand. I declined her flowers at first, but she 
pressed them on me till I took one, and placing it among 
my collection, preserved it as a memento of Chamouni. 

The register of the English Hotel is loaded down with 
names interspersed with every variety of remark, in poetry 
and prose: some grave, some gay, some sentimental, and 
some comical. The following description of the ascent 
of Mont Blanc pleased me so much I copied it. 


They talk of Helvellyn, Ben Lomond: all stuff t 
Mont Blanc is the d'tisy for me sure enough. 

For next to the Peek, in the county Mayo, 

It bates all the M luntains or hills that I know. 

Who’d see Mont Blanc fairly must make the ascent, 

*• Although owld-to look up was content: 

*1 can tell owld T-that as 1 m mnted higher. 

For one aigle he saw, 1 found three Lammergeyer. L- 
I was up on the top, where, (I tell you no lie) 

, I could count every rafter that howl Is up the sky. 

I wish to tell truth, and no more, tho’ no less. 

Add its Hrrible height to e orrictli/ express; 

I should say if I had but a common balloon, 

I could get in one hour with nine to the moon. 

If ever you wish on that trip to set out. 

You should start from the top of Mont Blanc without doubt t z- 
You’d find the way sure, and the chapelt to boot, 

Since you’d make such a date of the journey on foot ; 

Yet with one good, or tun middling spy-glasses, 

You could see from Mont Blanc every action that passes* 

I persaved the last quarter quite plain through a fog. 

Growing out of the first like a great moving bog, 

^ In a country so subject to change, I’ll be bail. 

Some hints could be got of a fair sliding scalei 
That Peel should there go to enquire, I advise, 

For I heartily wish him a flight to the skies, 

3ut again to my subject : I say and repute it, 

Mont Blanc bates all things that were ever created. 

As I was determined new wonders to seek, 

I went by a route that was somewhat unique: 

By the great sea of ice, where I saw the big hole 
Where Captain Ross wintered not far from the pole; 


240 


SKETCHES OF 


The Tropic of Cancer first lay on one side 
Like a terrible crevice some forty feet wide : 

Farther on I saw Greenland, as green as owld Dan^ 

But “ Jardin,” the guides called it, all to a man. 

I didn’t dispute, so we kept under weigh, 

Till we came to the ind of the great icy say , 

We saw the great mules “ that congealed in a pop,’* 

"When Saussure and Belmet would ride to the top; 

Now nothing remains but the petrified bones. 

Which mostly resembles a pair of big stones. 

1 brought my barometer, made by one Kayting, 

For fear the weather would want titillating ; 

But the weight of the air at the top so incrased. 

That the mercury sunk fourteen inches at taste . 

Then the cowld was so hot—tho’ we didn’t perspire— 

That we made water boil without any fire. 

We fired off a gun. but the sound was so small. 

That we doubted if truly it sounded at all; 

Which smallness was caused (I towld my friend Harrison) 

Alone by the size of Mont Blanc in comparison. 

But to describe all the sights would require 
Not powers like mine, but genius far higher: 

Not Byron in verse, nor Scott in his prose. 

Could give the taste notion of Blanc and his snows. 

Indeed none should try it but one of the “ Lakers,” 

Who, if not great wits, are yet great undertakers ; 

And then, of all these, none could do it so well 
As the wonderful author of great Peter Bell; 

For he to the summit could easily float 
Without walking a step—“ in his good little boat.” 

Next to him the great Southey, whose magical power 
Paints the fight of the cat in the awful mice tower; 

Whose description in words of sublimity set. 

Says “ the summer and autumn had been so wet.” 

’Tis spirits like these who are fit to attempt 
The labour from which such as I are exempt. 

Pat’k McSweeny. 

But the last night in Chamouni came ; and as I stood 
and leaned out of my window in the n oonlight, listening 
to the turbid Arveron rolling its swollen current through 
the vale, suddenly a dull, heavy sound, like the booming 
of distant cannon, rose on the night air. An avalanche 
had fallen far up amid the Alpine solitudes. Nothing can 
fill the soul with such strange, mysterious feelings as the 
sound of avalanches falling - at midnight, and alone, amid 
the Alps. 



THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


241 


IV. 

PASS OF THE TETE NOIRE. 

It may be from early association, or it may be that every 
one has made a hero of Mont Blanc, but there is some¬ 
thing about that majestic form and those splintered pin¬ 
nacles, standing like so many helmeted sentinels around 
him ; and all that prodigalty of snow-fields and glaciers, 
that has left its impress on my memory and heart for 
ever. And then that strangely silent, white, mysterious 
summit, bending its beautiful outline so farm the heavens, 
seems to be above the turmoil at its base, and apparently 
wrapped in its own majestic musings. I would have 
given anything to have placed my feet upon it and looked 
down on the world below, but it was too early in the 
season to think of doing it—indeed, it could not be done 
even by the chamois hunter, for fresh snow had fallen 
every few days throughout the season. A French lady, 
delicate and pale, wept in grief that she could not make 
the ascent. 

The afternoon we mounted our mules for the Tete Noire 
was dark and overcast, and there was every appearance 
of an Alpine storm. We had scarcely left the narrow 
valley and entered the mule path among the mountains, 
before the blast began to sweep by in gusts, till the fir 
trees rocked and roared over our heads. Having ascended 
at length above the region of trees, I turned to catch a 
last view of Mont Blanc and his glorious mountain guard 
before I entered the gloomy pass. There he stood with 
his snowy helmet on, looking down on the vast glaciers 
that went streaming into the valley below, and on the 
silent snow-fields stretching away in every direction, 
and around on the wild chaos of mountains that nature 
seemed to have piled there in some awful hurry of pas¬ 
sion. The scene was iudescribable, for the feelings it 
awakened had no fixed character. An object of beauty 
would stand beside an object of terror. A calm and soft 
Q, 


242 


SKETCHES OF 


snow-field that looked in the distance as if it might be a 
slumbering place for spirits, went creeping up to as 
savage a cliff as ever frowned over an abyss; while the 
gentle mist, “ like children gone to their evening repose, 
slept here and there in chasms that seemed fit only as a 
place of rendezvous for the storm. Htrangely wild and 
majestic towered away those peaks on the vision. I 
gazed and gazed, reluctant to say farewell to the won¬ 
drous scene. . . , 

Just then, a body of mist riding the mountain blast, 

swept over us, veiling everything in impenetrate gloom, 
■while the rain began to descend in torrents. _ Sheltering 
ourselves under the projecting roof of a Swiss hut that 
stood a little removed from the path, we waited awhile 
for the shower to pass over, but it was like waiting for a 
river to run by—the clouds condensed faster and faster, 
and the day grew darker and darker, till sudden night 
seemed about to involve everything. A feeling of dread 
crept over me as we wheeled out again into the rain, ana 
turned the drooping and drippling heads of our mules to¬ 
wards the pass. I felt as if we were on the threshold ot 
some gloomy fate, and I defy any one to keep up his 
spirits when hanging along the cliffs of an Alpine pass in 
the midst of a pelting Alpine storm. We spurred on, 
however; now crawling over barren and desolate rocks, 
now shooting out on to some projecting point that 
balanced over a deep abyss filled with boiling mist, 
through which the torrent struggled up with a muffled 
sound,—and now sinking into a black defile through, 
which the baffled storm went howling like a madman in 
his cell. As I stood on a ledge, and listened to the war 
of the elements around, suddenly through a defile that 
hent around a distant mountain, came a cloud as black as 
night. Its forehead was torn and rent by its fierce en¬ 
counter with the cliffs, and it came sweeping down as if 
inherent with life and a will. It burst over us, drenching 
us with rain, while the redoubled thunder rolled and 
cracked among the cliffs like a thousand cannon-shot* 
Everything but my mule and the few feet of rock I occu¬ 
pied would be hidden from my sight, and then would 
come a flash of lightning, rending the robe of mist, as it 
shot athwart the gloom, revealing a moment some black 
and heaven-high rock; and then leaving all again as dark 
and impenetrable as ever. The path often led along the 



THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


243 


face of the precipice, just wide enough for my mule; 
while the mist that was tossing in the abyss below, by 
concealing its depths, added inconceivably to its mystery 
and terror. Thus, hour after hour, we toiled on, with 
everything but the few feet of rock we occupied shrouded 
in vapour, except when it now and then rent over some 
cliff or chasm. I was getting altogether too much of 
sublimity, and would have gladly exchanged my certainly 
wild enough path for three or four miles of fair trotting 
ground. But in spite of my drenched state, I could not 
but laugh now and then as I saw my three companions 
and guide straggling along in Indian file, and taking with 
such a meek, resigned air, the rain on their bowed 
shoulders. 

As we advanced towards the latter end of the pass, I 
was startled as though I had seen an apparition. The 
mist, which for a long time enshrouded every thing, sud¬ 
denly parted over a distant mountain slope high up on 
the farther side of the gulf, and a small Swiss hamlet, 
smiling amid the green pasturages, burst on the vision. 
I had hardly time to utter an exclamation of surprise be¬ 
fore it closed again as before, blotting out every thing 
from view. I could hardly believe my own senses, so 
suddenly had the vision come and departed, and stood a 
long time waiting its re-appearance. But it came no 
more—the stubborn mist locked it in like the hand of 
fate. That little eagle-nested hamlet, with its sweet 
pasturages, came and went like a flash of lightning, yet 
so distinct was the impression it made, that 1 could now 
almost paint it from memory. 

Beaching the lower slope of the mountain, we passed 
a little village utterly prostrate by an avalanche. The 
descending mass of snow swept clean over it, carrying 
away church and all. It looked as if some mighty hand 
had been spread out over the dwellings, and crushed 
them with a single effort to the earth. It was one scene 
of ruin and devastation, yet strange to say, though the 
avalanche fell in the night, only two or three persons 
were killed. In riding along it was fearful to see where 
an avalanche had swept, bending down strong trees, as 
though they were reeds, in its passage. 

Soaked through, worn out and depressed, I was glad 
when the gloomy path around the Tete Noire (black head) 
opened into daylight; and the blazing pine fire that was 




SKETCHES OP 


244 

soon kindled up in a dry room, was as welcome as the 
face of a friend. The only relic I brought away from 
this pass was an Alpine rose, which my guide plucked 
from among the rocks, where it lay like a ruby amid 
surrounding rubbish. 

In looking over this description, 1 see I have utterly 
failed in giving any adequate conception of the scenery. 
One would get the impression that there was a single de¬ 
file, dark and narrow, and nothing more. But when it is 
remembered that we started at nine, and emerged from 
the dark forest of Tete Noire at three; one can imagine 
the variety of scenery that opened like constant surprises 
upon us. * Now we would be climbing a steep mountain 
—now plunging into a dark gorge filled with boiling 
mist—now hanging along a cliff, that in its turn hung 
over an almost bottomless chasm—now stretching across 
some sweet pasturage—now following a torrent in its 
desperate plunge through the rocks, and now picking our 
careful way through as gloomy a forest as ever enclosed 
a robber’s den. I do not know how it may appear in 
pleasant weather, but the pass of the Tete Noire in the 
midst of an Alpine storm is not a pleasure jaunt. 


V. 


BATHS OF LEUK. 

In coming from the Simplon up the Vallais to Geneva, 
one passed the baths of Leuk, a little removed from the 
Bhone. This hamlet, elevated 4500 feet above the level 
of the sea, is shut in by a circular precipice that sur¬ 
rounds it like a mighty wall, up which you are com¬ 
pelled to climb in steps cut in the face of the solid rock. 
Its hot springs are visited during the summer months by 
the French and Swiss for their healing effects. It is 
something of a task, as one can well imagine, to get an 
invalid up to these baths. The transportation is entirely 
by hand, and the terms are regulated by the director of 
the baths. These regulations are printed in French, and 



THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 245 

one relating to corpulent persons struck us so comically 
that we give a translation of it. 

“ For a person over ten years of age four porters are necessary; if he 
is above the ordinary weight, six porters; but if he is of an extraor¬ 
dinary weight, and the commissary judges proper, two others may be 
added, but never more.” 

There are some dozen springs in all, the principal one 
of which, the St. Lawrence has a temperature of 124 deg. 
Fahrenheit. The mode of bathing is entirely unique, and 
makes an American open his eyes, at first, in unfeigned 
astonishment. The patient begins by remaining in the 
bath the short space of one hour , and goes on increasing 
the time till he reaches eight hours ; four before breakfast 
and four after dinner. After each bath of four hours’ 
duration, the doctor requires one hour to be passed in 
bed. This makes in all ten hours per day to the poor 
patient, leaving him little time for any thing else. To 
obviate the tediousness of soaking alone four hours in a 
private bath, the patients all bathe together. A large 
shed divided into four compartments, each capable of 
holding about eighteen persons, constitutes the principal 
bath house. A slight gallery is built along the partitions 
dividing the several baths, for visitors to occupy who 
wish to enjoy the company of their friends, without the 
inconvenience of lying in the water. This is absolutely 
necessary, for if eight hours are to be passed in the bath 
and two in bed, and the person enduring all this is to be 
left alone in the mean time, the life of an anchorite would 
be far preferable to it. It is solitary confinement in the 
penitentiary, with the exception that the cell is a waterg 
one. All the bathers, of both sexes and all ages and con¬ 
ditions, are clothed in long woollen mantles with a tippet 
around their shoulders, and sit on benches ranged round 
the bath, under water up to their necks. Stroll into this 
large bathing room awhile after dinner, the first thing 
that meets your eye is some dozen or fifteen heads bob¬ 
bing up and down, like buoys, on the surface of the 
steaming water. There, wagging backwards and for¬ 
wards, is the shaven crown of a fat old friar. Close 
beside, the glossy ringlets of a fair maiden, while between, 
perhaps, is the moustached face of an invalid officer. In 
another direction, gray hairs are “ floating on the tide,” 
and the withered faces of old dames peer “ over the 


24G 


SKETCHES OF 


flood.” Bat to sit and soak a whole day, even in com¬ 
pany, is no slight penalty, and so to while away the 
lazy hours, one is engaged in reading a newspaper which 
he holds over his head, another in discussing a bit of toast 
on a floating table; a third, in keeping a withered nose¬ 
gay, like a waterlily, just above the surface, while it is 
hard to tell which looks most dolorous, the withered 
flowers or her face. In one corner two persons are en¬ 
gaged in playing chess; and in another, three or four 
more, with their chins just out of water, are enjoying a 
pleasant u tete-a-tete” about the delectability of being 
under water, seething away at a temperature of nearly 
120 deg., eight hours per day. Persons making their 
daily calls on their friends are entering and leaving the 
gallery, or leaning over engaged in earnest conversation 
with those below them. Not much etiquette is observed 
in leave-taking, for if the patient should attempt a bow 
he would duck his head under water. Laughable as this 
may seem, it is nevertheless a grave matter, and no one 
would submit to it except for health, that boon for which 
the circle of the world is made, the tortures of amputa¬ 
tion endured, and the wealth of the millionaire squan¬ 
dered. The strictest decorum is preserved, and every 
breach of propriety punished by the worthy burgomaster 
with a fine'bf two francs or one shilling and eight pence. 
A set of regulations is hung against the walls specifying 
the manner with which every patient is to conduct him¬ 
self or herself.—As specimens, we give articles 7 and 9, 
which will also be found in Mr. Murray’s guide book. 

“Act. 7. Personne ne peut entrer dans les bains sans etre revetue 
d line chemise longue, et ample, d’une etoffe grossiere, sous peine de 
2 fr. d’amende.” 

** Art. 9. La meme peine sera encouir par ceux qui n’en entreraient pas, 
ou n’en sortiraient pas d’une maniere decente.” 

Translation. Art. 7- No one is permitted to enter these baths without 

being clothed in a long, ample, and thick “chemise” under the penalty 
of a fine of 2 francs. 3 

Art. 9. The same penalty will be incurred by those who do not enter or 
depart iu a becoming manner. 


Great care is taken that every thing should be done 
decently and in order ” and there is nothing to prevent 
people from behaving themselves while sitting on benches 
'Linder water as well as above water. 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


247 


About a mile and a half from these baths is the little 
village of Albinen, perched on the top of the precipice 
that hems in the valley of Leuk on every side like a huge 
wall. The only direct mode of communication between, 
the inhabitants of Leuk and this village is by a series of 
nearly a dozen ladders going up the face of the precipice. 
They are of the rudest kind, and fastened to the rock 
with hooked sticks. Yet the peasants ascend and descend 
them all times of the day and night and at all seasons of 
the year. The females have added to their usual dress 
the pantaloons of the men. This has become so universal, 
that in climbing the mountains around, they tuck up their 
dresses, and appear at a little distance like boys. Thus 
do these rude peasantry, following the instincts of nature 
and modesty, combine convenience and propriety, and 
retain their fashions from one generation to another. It 
is said that pantalets had their origin here. 


VI. 

THE CASTLE OF CHILLON. GENEVA. 
JUNCTION OF THE RHONE AND ARVE. 

The night after we left Martigny, we slept on the shores 
of Lake Geneva, in close view of Chillon. The castle 
has become immortal by accident. In passing round 
Lake Geneva, in 1816, Byron got caught in a rain-storm, 
and remained two days in the little village of Ochy, in a 
mere hut of an inn. Having nothing else to do, he wrote 
in the mean time, “ The Prisoner of Chillon,” the 
characters of which poem lived only in his own imagina¬ 
tion. At that time he was even unacquainted with the 
story of Bonnivard, which might have been made the 
basis of a very beautiful poem. When he afterwards 
heard of it, he wrote a sonnet on the noble prior of 
Victor, in which he says: 

“ Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place. 

And thy sad floor an altar; for ’twastrod 
Until its very steps have left a trace 
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod* 



248 


SKETCHES OF 


By Eonnivard ! May none those marks efface ! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. ’ 

I regard the “ Prisoner of Chillon” one of the most- 
beautiful pieces Byron ever wrote. It has all his passion 
and fancy, without any of his wickedness. It is tender, 
touching and beautiful, and ought to make any place 
immortal. Yet we confess that the old castle standing 
on a rock in the lake did not owe its chief charm to us 
from this poem. We thought of the patriot Bonnivard, 
who suffered here for endeavouring to make Geneva free. 
A freeman, and loving freedom more than life, he with¬ 
stood, though only Prior of St. Victor, the tyrannical 
Duke of Savoy and his own heartless Bishop. Driven 
from Geneva, he was betrayed into the hands of the 
Duke, and cast into a dungeon of this castle, below the 
surface of the lake. Chained to a column of stone, the 
bold-hearted Prior passed six long years in solitary con¬ 
finement. The ring still remains in the pillar to which 
bis chain was attached, and the solid pavement is worn 
in, by the constant tread of his feet as he paced to and 
fro in his dungeon. The only music that greeted his ear. 
year after year, was the low dashing of the waters 
against his prison walls, or the shock of the waves as the 
tempest hurled them on the steadfast castle. Year after 
year he trod the self-same spot, while the iron rusted on 
his stiffening limbs, and hope grew fainter and fainter 
round his heart. He struggled to free others, and got a 
chain upon his own limbs. But he had one consolation, 
that which cheers the martyr in every age and in every 
noble cause: that was— 

“ Truth crushed to earth will rise again, 

The eternal years of God are hers.” 

* ^ one day, as he was slowly pacing to and fro 

m his silent dungeon, he heard a murmur without, like 
the coming of a storm. The castle quivered on its strong 
foundations, but it could not be from the waves against 
its sides. He listened again; there were human voices 
in the air, and the shout of a multitude shook the very- 
rock on which he stood. A deeper paleness spread over 
Bonnivard’s cheek, and then a sudden flush shot to his 
temples, as hope kindled in his heart. Blows are mingled 
with the shouts-—the crash of falling timbers is heard— 


TIIE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


24£ 


the outer gate is forced, and like the blast of a trumpet 
rings over the storm the name of “ Bonnivard ! Bonni- 
yard !” Bolts and bars rend before them—the gates 
shake, totter, and fall. At length they reach Bonnivard’s 
dungeon, against which blows are rained like hail-stones. 
The massive gate quivers, and yields, and falls, and a 
thousand voices rend the very walls with the shout— 
“Bonnivard, you are free!” What said the patriot 
then ? Forgetful of himself—of his own freedom—thinking 
only of his country, he cried out— 

“ And Geneva ?” 

“Is free too!” came back like the roar of the sea. 
The Swiss had wrested from the hands of Charles V. of 
Savoy the whole Pays du Yaud. Chillon held out to the* 
last; but besieged by seven thousand Swiss by land, and 
the Genevese galleys by sea, it was at length taken. It 
was like waking up from a dream to Bonnivard. When he 
descended into his dungeon, Geneva was subject to the 
Duke of Savoy, and was a Catholic state. When he came 
forth, Geneva was free, a republic, and professing the 
reformed faith. 

Byron has made free use of the poet’s privilege to 
exaggerate, in speaking of the depth of the lake. He 
says:— 


“ Labe Leman lies by Chillon’s walls— 

A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow : 

Thus much the fathom line was sent. 
From Chillon’s snow-white battlement.” 


A poet should never go into statistics of this sort, for 
other folks can measure as well as he, though they may 
not write poetry. There is no place in the region of the 
castle more than 280 feet deep. 

I will not weary one with the mere names of the beau- 
tiful places and views around this sweet lake. The sen¬ 
timentalist would talk of Clarens and Rousseau and his 
Julie ; the sceptic, of Voltaire and Ferney: but we 
visited neither place, having no sympathy with the mor¬ 
bid, sickly, and effeminate sentimentality of the one, or 
with the heartless scoffing wit of the other. The garden 
in which Gibbon finished his history of Rome is shown at 
Lausanne. He first conceived his idea of his history 
while sitting on a broken column in the Coliseum, and 


250 


SKETCHES OP 


ended it on Lake Geneva. He says: “ It was on the 
day, or rather the night of June, 1787, between the hours 
of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last line of the 
last page, in a summer-house in my garden. After laying 
down my pen, I took several turns in a berceau or co¬ 
vered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of 
the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was 
temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the 
moon was reflected from the waves, aud all nature was 
silent.’’ This remarkable passage throws open the feelings 
of the inner man at the close of his arduous work. Is it 
not strange that a man of such intellect and sentiment 
should see no God in history or nature. In the ruins of 
Home at his feet, surmounted everywhere by the cross, he 
could see nothing but the work of human passion and 
human cunning. So in the placid lake, smiling in the 
moonlight; and in the towering Alps, folding their mighty 
summits away on the nightly heavens, he could behold 
nothing but the aspect of nature. To him the world had 
no plan or purpose, and the busy centuries no mission or 
meaning. The heavens and the earth were a mere poem 
—the history of man a short episode—and both an acci¬ 
dent. How a man with such views could give himself up 
to the contemplations Gibbon did, and escape suicide, is 
a mystery to me. I could not live in such a planless, 
aimless creation. Give me no steady centre to these 
mighty mutations—no stable throne amid these roeking 
kingdoms and shaking orbs—no clear and controlling 
mind to this wild chaos of ideas and passions—no great 
and glorious result to all this mysterious and awful pre¬ 
paration and Reason herself would become as wild and 
confused and aimless as they. A great mind, without a 
God, is to us the most melancholy thing in the universe. 

Lake Geneva lies in the shape of a half-moon with the 
horns curved towards the South, and is the largest lake 
in Switzerland, being 55 miles long. It has one strange 
phenomenon. In different parts of the lake, but more 
frequently near Geneva, the water suddenly rises, at 
times, from two to five feet. It never remains in this 
position more than 25 minutes, when it again falls back 
to its original level. These are called seiches, and the 
only explanation given of them is the unequal pressure of 
the atmosphere on the surface at different times. This, 
however, is mere conjecture. 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


251 


But the shores constitute the beauty of Lake Geneva. 
Sloping down to the water’s edge, covered with villas, 
villages, and cultivated fields, and hallowed by such 
sweet as well as stirring associations, it seems more like 
a dream-land than a portion of our rougli earth. There 
is an atmosphere, an influence, a something around it 
that takes the heart captive at once, and the lips will 
murmur 

et Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake 
With the wild world I dwell in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth’s troubled waters for a purer spring : 

This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from destruction; once I loved 
Torn ocean’s roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister’s voice reproved 
That I with stern delights should e’er have been thus moved* 

It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk yet clear. 

Mellowed and mingled, yet distinctly seen. 

Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep; and drawing near 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar. 

Or chirps the grasshopper one good night carol more. 

At intervals some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into life a moment, then is still; 

There seems a floating whisper on the hill. 

But that is fancy,—for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil. 

Weeping themselves away.” 

Yet quiet and dreamy as these shores appear, stern 
practical men have lived upon them, and the name of 
Galvin goes down with that of Geneva and Switzerland 
in the history of the world. Calvin and Rousseau ! what 
a strange connection ; yet they are linked together in the 
history of Geneva. The church still stands where the 
itinerant preacher and foreigner first thundered forth his 
denunciations against the dissolute town. Elevated to 
the control of the republic, he was just the man to sway 
its turbulent democracy. Stern, fearless, and decided, 
he marked out his course of policy, and made every thing 
bend to it. Take even some of the most arbitrary of his 


252 


SKETCHES OP 


enactments, and they show the clear-sightedness of the 
man. Among them we find that only five dishes were 
allowed for dinner to ten persons. Plush breeches were 
forbidden to be worn; violation of the Sabbath was 
punished by a public admonition from the pulpit, and 
adultery with death; while the gamester was exposed in 
the pillory, with a pack of cards suspended round his 
neck. These things awaken a smile or sneer in these 
more liberal days, but whoever shall write the last his¬ 
tory of republics will prove that such apparently bigoted 
enactments, sprung out of the clearest practical wisdom. 
A republic without the severity of Puritan manner, we 
believe is impossible for any length of time; that is while 
men are so depraved they will use their liberty for the 
gratification of their passions. The (so called) “ straight- 
laced Puritan” is, after all, the only man who knows any 
thing of the true genius of a republic among men such as 
we find them. Calvin and Rousseau! which, after all,, 
was the true republican ? the sentimental dreamer or the 
stern Presbyterian ? These two names stand in Geneva 
like great indexes, pointing out the characters of the 
30,000 persons who annually pass through it, by showing 
which way their sympathies flow. One portion looks on 
Calvin to sneer, the other on Rousseau to sigh. 

The deep blue tint of the waters of the Rhone as it 
leaves the lake has often been commented upon. As it 
rushes under the bridges of the town, it looks as if a vast 
quantity of indigo had been emptied into it, tinging it as 
we have seen water in no other part of the world. About 
a mile and a half from town, this stream of “ heavenly 
dye’’ receives the turbid waters of the Arve into its bosom. 
The Arve is a furious stream, and comes pouring down 
from Mont Blanc, loaded with the debris of the mountains, 
till it looks like a river of mud. When the clear blue 
Rhone first meets this rash innovator of its purity, it re¬ 
fuses to hold any companionship with it, and retires in 
apparent disgust to the opposite bank, and for a long way 
the waters flow on with the separating line between the 
muddy white and pellucid blue, as clearly drawn as the 
shore itself. But the Arve finally conquers, and fuses all 
its corrupt waters into the Rhone, which never after re¬ 
covers its clearness till it falls into the sea. We 
followed the bank along for some distance, watching 
with the intensest interest this struggle between corrup- 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


203 

tion and purity. There was an angry, rash, and headlong 
movement to the turbid Arve, while the stainless waters 
of the Rhone seemed endeavouring, by yielding, to escape 
the contagious touch of its companion. What a striking 
emblem of the steady encroachment of bad priciples and 
desires when once admitted into the heart, or of the cor¬ 
rupting influence of bad companionship on a pure mind. 
The Arve, for the time being, seemed endowed with con¬ 
sciousness, and a feeling of an anger involuntarily arose 
within me at its unblushing effrontery in thus crowding 
back the beautiful Rhone from its own banks, and forcing 
it to receive its disgusting embrace. The world is full 
of histories of which the Rhone and Arve are the type. 


VII. 

EREYBOURG ORGAN AND BRIDGES.— 
SWISS PECULIARITIES. 

Nothing strikes the traveller more than the peculiar 
customs attached to the separate cantons of Switzerland. 
Although bordering on each other, and each but a few 
miles across, yet they retain from generation to genera¬ 
tion their own peculiar dress and money. The traveller 
becomes perfectly confused with the latter. The dress 
of the female peasantry is not only dissimilar in the dif¬ 
ferent cantons, but odd as it well can be. In one, the 
head-dress will be an immensely broad-brimmed straw 
hat without any perceptible crown; in another a man’s 
hat; in a third a diminutive thing perched on the top of 
the head ; and in a fourth a black crape cap, with a wing 
on each side projecting out like huge fans. The latter 
you find in Freybourg, and this reminds us of the two 
magnificent wire bridges in the town itself, and the 
immense organ. The latter has 7800 pipes, some of them 
32 feet long, and 64 stops. It is an instrument of 
tremendous power, and though the traveller is compelled 
to pay eleven franks to hear it on a week-day, it is worth 
the money. At first, one imagines a trick is played upon 
him, and that a full orchestra accompanies the organ. 



251 


SKETCHES OE 


The mellow tones melt in and float away with the 
heavier notes, as if a band of musicians were playing out 
of sight. Many refuse to believe it is not a deception till; 
they go up and examine every part of the instrument. 
The effect is perfectly bewildering. There is the trombone, 
the clarionet, the flute, the life, and ever and anon, the 
clear ringing note of the trumpet. The performance is 
closed with an imitation of a thunder storm, in which the 
wonderful power of the instrument is fully tested. At 
flrst you hear the low distant growl swelling up, and then 
slowly dying away. The next peal breaks on the ear 
with a more distinct and threatening sound. Nearer and 
nearer rolls up the thunder-cloud, sending its quick and 
heavy discharges through the atmosphere, till clap follows 
clap with stunning rapidity, rolling and clashing through 
the building till its solid arches tremble as if the real 
thunders of heaven were bursting overhead. 1 did not 
dream that a single instrument could possess so much 
power. 

There are two suspension bridges in Freybourg; one> 
remarkable for its great length, the other for its extreme 
beauty, 4 he latter connects the top of'two mountains, 
swinging over a frightful gulf that makes one dizzy 
to look down into. There are no buttresses or mason- 
work in sight at a little distance. Shafts are sunk in the 
solid rock of the mountains, down which the wires that 
sustain it are dropped. There it stretches, a mere black 
line nearly 300 feet in the heavens, from summit to summit. 
It looks like a spider’s web flung across a chasm; its 
delicate tracery showing clear and distinct against the 
sky. W bile you are loking at the fairy creation suspend¬ 
ed in mid-heaven, almost expecting the next breeze will 
waft it away, you see a heavy waggon driven on it. You 
shrink back with horror at the rashness that could trust so 
frail a sti ucture at that dizzy height. But the air-hung cob¬ 
web sustains the pressure, and the vehicle passes in 
safety. Indeed, weight steadies it, while the wind, as it 
sweeps down the gulf, makes it swing under you. 

The large suspension bridge is supported on four cables 
Of iron wire, each one composed of 1056 wires. As the 
Menai bridge of ales is olten said to be longer than this, 
we give the dimensions of both as we find them in Mr. 
Murray ; Freybourg, length 905 feet, height 174 feet, 
breadth 28 feet; Menai, length 580 feet, height 130 feet-, 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


255 


breadth 25 feet. A span of 905 feet, without any inter¬ 
mediate pier, seems impossible at first, and one needs the 
testimony of his own eyes before he can fully believe it. 

But to the customs of the Swiss. I do not speak of 
them here because I have witnessed them all thus far on 
my route, or in any part of it, but because they seem to 
fill up a chapter best just here. Of some of these 
customs I speak as an eye-witness—of others simply as 
a' historian. There is one connected with education 
which exerts a wonderful influence on society. In the 
large towns the children of similar age and sex are 
gathered together by their parents in little societies 
called societies des dimanches. These little clubs are 
composed of twelve or fourteen children, selected by the 
parents with a view to their adaptedness to amuse and 
benefit each other. They meet in turn at the houses of 
the different parents every Sabbath evening. Their 
nurses are with them, and the time is spent in amuse¬ 
ments common to children. As they grow older these 
amusements are combined with instruction. This kind of 
intimacy creates strong friendships which last long after 
they are dispersed and scattered over the world, and 
even through life. Girls thus linked together in child¬ 
hood retain their affection in maturer life, and even in 
womanhood distinguish each other by the tender appel- 
ations of u ma mignonne ,” “ nion cceur," “ mon ange .” 
This is one great reason why Swiss society is so exclu¬ 
sive, and it is so difficult for a stranger to press beyond 
its mere formalities. The rank of the husband in Switzer¬ 
land depends altogether upon that of his wife. Imme¬ 
diately on their marriage he steps into Tier rank, be it 
above or below that he formerly occupied. 

There has been much written about Swiss melodies, 
and the custom of singing in the open air, in that clear 
high falsetto is singularly wild and thrilling. The cow 
herds and dairy maids seem never weary of mingling 
their voices together in the clear mountain air of the Alps. 
The effect of it on the traveller is often astonishing. 
Southey, in speaking of it, says, “ Surely the wildest 
chorus that was ever heard by human ears: a soDg not 
of articulate sounds, but in which the voice is used as a 
mere instrument of music, more flexible than any which 
art could produce ; sweet, powerful and thrilling beyond 
description.” The Alp horn, which is merely a tube of 


SKETCHE3 OF 


256 

wood five or six feet long, bound about with birch bark, 
is capable of the most melodious sound, when softened 
and prolonged by the mountain echoes, I ever heard. 

Nothing in my boyhood captivated my imagination 
more than the custom which was said to prevail in 
Switzerland, of the peasantry calling out to each other, 
as the last sunlight left the highest Alpine peak,—“ Praise 
the Lord.” But it loses some of its poetry heard on the 
spot. It is confined to the more rude and pastoral 
districts in the Catholic cantons. Having no church 
near to ring the accustomed vesper bell, its place is 
supplied by the Alp horn. A cowherd stationed on the 
highest peaks reclines along some rock, and as the 
golden sunlight leaves the last heaven-piercing snow- 
summit, he utters through his mellow horn the first five 
or six notes of the psalm commencing “ Praise ye the 
Lord.” The strain is caught up and prolonged by the 
mountain echoes and answered from other distant peaks, 
till the soul-thrilling cadences seem to die away on the 
portals of heaven. The tones of the horn are indescri¬ 
bably sweet and subduing, awaking all the dormant 
poetry of a man’s nature. But the custom which once 
seemed to me to be the very embodiment of religion and 
poetry together, appeared, after all, a very business-like 
and prosaic matter. It being necessary to carry out the 
Catholic observance, a horn is substituted for the vesper 
bell, which one hears ringing every evening in Catholic 
countries for the same purpose. There is just as much 
religion in the call of the muezzin from the minaret of 
some Moslem tower, which one hears at every turn in 
Turkey. Nay this very custom, which has been more 
spoken of, more poetized, perhaps, than all others, pre¬ 
wails in some parts of our own country. I remember 
being in my grown-up boyhood once in an Indian mis¬ 
sionary station of the Methodist denomination, where a 
similar expedient was adopted. Strolling at evening 
along the banks of a stream, I suddenly heard the pro¬ 
longed blast of a horn sounding very much like a dinner 
horn. Its long continuance at that time of night 
awakened my curiosity, and on inquiring the cause of it, 
I was informed it was to call the Indians to prayer 
meeting. A conch shell had supplied the place of a bell. 
Bending my own steps thither, I arrived just in time to 
find a low school-house crowded with dusky visages. 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


257 


while the whole multitude was singing at the top of their 
voices “ Old ship Zion.” Here was the Alpine custom 
on which so much sentiment has been expended, but 
combined with vastly more sense and religion. 

At the sound of this vesper bell, alias Alp horn, the 
peasants uncover their heads, and falling on their knees 
repeat their evening prayers, and then shut up their cattle 
and retire to their homes. 

The “ Ranz des Vaches which is commonly supposed 
to be a single air, stands in Switzerland for a class of 
melodies, the literal meaning of which is cow-rows . The 
German word is Kureihen—rows of cows. It derives its 
origin from the manner the cows march home along the 
Alpine paths at milking time. The shepherd goes before, 
keeping every straggler in its place by the tones of his 
horn, while the whole herd wind along in Indian file obe¬ 
dient to the call. From its association it always creates 
home-sickness in a Swiss mountaineer when he hears it 
in a foreign land. It is said these melodies are prohibited 
in the Swiss regiments attached to the French army because 
it produces so many desertions. One of th e“Ranz des 
Vaches ,” brings back to his imagination his Alpine cot¬ 
tage—the green pasturage—the bleating of his mountain 
goats—the voices of the milk-maids, and all the sweet¬ 
ness and innocence of a pastoral life; till his heart turns 
with a sad yearning to the haunts of his childhood and 
the spot of his early dreams and early happiness. 

The Swiss retain their old fondness for rifle shooting, 
and there is annually a grand rifle match at some of 
the large towns, made up of the best marksmen in all 
Switzerland. There are also yearly contests in wrestling 
called Zwing Feste, the most distinguished wrestlers at 
which are from Unterwalden, Appenzel and Berne. Goitre 
and Cretinisn prevail in some parts of the Alps to a fear¬ 
ful extent, and have prevailed for ages if we can believe 
Juvenal, who asks— 

*' Quis tumidum guttur miratur in Alpibus ?” 

Goitre, it is well known, is a swelling of the thyroid gland 
or adjoining part in front of the neck. It increases with 
years and hangs down on the breast in a most disgusting 
and shocking manner. The painful spectacle almost de¬ 
stroys one’s pleasure in travelling in many parts of the 

R 


SKETCHES OF 


258 

Alps. Cretinism inhabits the same localities, and is still 
more painful, for it affects the mind. The limbs become 
shrivelled and shrunk, the head enlarged, and the afflicted, 
being an idiot. He sits in the sun all day long, and as 
you approach clamours piteously for money. Dr. McClel¬ 
land made experiments over a territory of more than a 
thousand square miles, to test the effect of certain locali¬ 
ties on this disease. Mr. Murray quotes from him the 
following statement showing the proportion between the 
healthy and sick : as the result of his observation, 

Granite and gneiss— goitre 1-500 ; cretins none. 

Mica slate and hornblende slate—goitre none; cretins 

none. 

Clay slate—goitre 1-136 ; cretins none. 

Transition slate—goitre 1-149 ; cretins none. 

Steatic sandstone—goitre none; cretins none. 

Calcareous rock—goitre 1-3 ; cretins 1-32. 

Thus it is seen that low and moist places are more sub¬ 
ject to these diseases, while the high and dry portions are 
comparatively exempt. Confined valleys and ground fre¬ 
quently overflowed are also unfavourable localities. The 
goitre is hereditary, but does not make its appearance 
till puberty. It is more common among the females than 
uial^s* 

How singular it is that among the most glorious scenery 
on the earth, we find man subject to a disease that de¬ 
forms him the most. And what is still more singular, it 
is among the most beautiful valleys in all the Alps that 
the inhabitants are peculiarly subject to these diseases. 
Thus beauty and deformity go hand in hand over the 
world. 


THE ALPS AND THE IUIINE. 




VIII. 

INTERLACHEN, PASS OF THE WENGERN 
ALP, BYRON’S MANFRED. 

Interlachen is as sweet a valley as ever slept in the 
bosom of nature. At a little distance from it, Lake Thun, 
■with its placid sheet of water, stretches up towards 
Berne, serving as a mirror to the snow-peaks of Stock¬ 
holm, Wiesen, Eigher and Monch, that rise in solemn 
majesty from its quiet shore. An English yacht had 
been turned into a steam-boat, whose tiny proportions 
remind one more of a slender model in a toy-shop than a 
real practical steamboat. 

Interlachen seems out of the world, and its retired 
position and magnificent scenery have converted it into 
an English colony ; for two-thirds of the summer visitors 
are Englishmen. All the houses seem “ pensions’* 
or boarding houses, and with their white washed walls 
and large piazzas burst on you at every step from amid 
the surrounding trees. Set back in the bosom of the Alps, 
with the J ungfrau rising in view—its endless rides and 
shaded walks make it one of the sweetest spots in the 
world. And then in summer, the contrast between the 
richly clad visitors that swarm it in every direction, and 
the rustic appearance of the peasantry and the place 
itself, make it seem more like a dream-land. Near by 
are the ruins of the castle of Unspunnen, the reputed 
residence of Manfred. Standing as it does in the very 
midst of the scenery in which that drama is laid, Byron 
doubtless had it in mind when he wrote it. Near by, in 
the quiet valley, there are every year gymnastic games 
among the peasantry, such as wrestling, pitching the 
stone, &c. These games owed their origin to a touching 
incident in the history of Burkhard, the last male de¬ 
scendant of the family who owned the castle. A young 
knight belonging to the court of Berchtold of Zahringen 
fell in love with Ida, the only daughter of the proud 
Burkhard; but as a deadly feud had long subsisted be- 


260 


SKETCHES OF 


tween the two families, the old baron sternly refused his 
consent to the marriage. The result was that the ynnng 
Rudolph scaled the castle walls one night, and, carrying 
off the willing Ida, made her his bride. A bloody war 
commenced, which was carried on without advantage to 
either party. At length, one day, as the old baron was 
sitting moodily in his room, pondering on his desolate 
condition, the door gently opened, and young Rudolph 
and Ida stood before him, holding their beautiful and Ian 
haired boy by the hand. Without attendants, alone and 
unarmed, they had thrown themselves in simple faith, on 
the strength of a father’s love. The silent appeal was 
irresistible. The old man opened his arms) and his 
children fell in tears on his bosom. He received them 
into his castle, made Rudolph heir to his vast possessions, 
and said, “ Let this day be for ever celebrated among us. 
Rustic games were established in consequence, and now, 
with every return of the day, the sweet valley of Inter- 
lachen rings with the mirth of the mountaineer. 

It was a dark and gloomy morning, when we stated 
for Lauterbrunnen. An Alpine storm swept to rough the 
valley, and the heaving, lifting clouds buried the snow- 
neaks around in impenetrable mist, leaving only the 
black bases in sight. The rain fell as if the clouds them¬ 
selves were falling. . , . 

In the midst of this storm -we plunged into the savage 
gorge of the Lutschine, and entered upon a scene ot 
indescribable grandeur and gloom. Perpendicular clifts 
rose on each side, against which the angry clouds weie 
dashing in reckless energy, while the black torrent ot the 
Lutchine went roaring by, flinging its spray even to our 
carriage wheels. As we emerged into the valley ol 
Lauterbrunnen, a peasant girl came to the side ot the 
carriage, with a little basket of strawberries in her hand, 
and trotted along by our side, singing one of those strangely 
wild Alpine chorusses, made doubly so by the clear, 
ringing falsetto tone in which they are sung. At Lauter¬ 
brunnen we breakfasted in a cold room. I ate with my 
cloak on, stopping now and then to warm my hands over 
the tea-pot. Suddenly a burst of sunlight told us the 
storm had broken. A general “ hurra 1” hailed the cheer¬ 
ing omen, and in a moment all was bustle and preparation 
for a march over the Wengern Alp. 

Nearly twenty miles were before us, and to be made at 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


261 


the rate of about two and a half miles per hour. I let 
my companions march on, while I paid a hasty visit to 
the falls of Staubach, (dust-fall) so named because the 
water, falling from the height of eight hundred or nine 
hundred feet, is dashed into mist before it reaches the 
bottom. It comes leaping right over the top of the 
mountain in its bold, desperate plunge for the valley. 
Byron, in describing it, says. “ The torrent is in shape, 
curling over the rock, like the tail of a white horse 
streaming in the wind; such as it might be conceived 
would be that of the pale horse on which Death is 
mounted in the Apocalypse. It is neither mist nor water: 
but something between both. Its immense height gives 
it a wave or curve—a spreading here and a condensation 
there—wonderful and indescribable.” After getting 
pretty well soaked in its spray, I plucked a blue flower 
near its foot, and turned to join my companions, who 
were now slowly winding up the opposite mountain in a 
narrow mule-path, that seemed itself to have a hard 
struggle to master the bold hill. Up and up we panted, 
now rejoicing in the clear sunlight, and now drenched in 
rain as a cloud dashed over us. Reaching at length a 
long slope of pasturage land, I ran to the edge of a pre¬ 
cipice and looked down on the valley of Lauterbrunnen, 
now dwindled to a green ditch—and across on Staubach, 
that seemed merely a silver thread dangling over the 
rock. The echo of the woodman’s axe came at intervals 
across the valley, whose shining steel I could see through 
my glass, coming down for a second blow ere the sound 
of the first could reach me. 

Pressing slowly up the ascent, my steps were suddenly 
arrested by one of the sweetest, clearest tones I ever 
heard. Rich, mellow and full, it rose and fell in heart¬ 
piercing melody along the mountain. It was the Alpine 
horn. This instrument, which I have described before, is 
a great favourite of the Swiss. A young mountaineer 
lay stretched on a rock, across which the horn rested, and 
saluted us as we approached with one of the wildest yet 
softest strains I ever listened to. He had selected a spot 
where the echo was the clearest and the longest prolonged, 
and I stood in perfect raptures as the sound was caught 
up by peak after peak, and sent back in several distinct 
echoes. Long after the mountaineer had ceased blowing 
would the different peaks catch up the simple notes and 


262 


SKETCHES OE 



Strains 111 ICBIWliai »^ -“j- .- ... ,, . ._ 

•wild precipices that scoffed the heavens with their jagged 
and broken summits, with increased respect every mo¬ 


ment, from the sweet rich tones they were thus able to 
send back. But I confess they were the roughest looking? 
choristers I ever saw perform. It seemed really a great 
feat to make such music, and I thought I would try my 
skill; so putting my mouth to the instrument I blew 
away—Heavens! what a change !-every mountain 
seemed snarling at me, and the confused echoes finally 
settled down into a steady growl. I gave back the horn 
to the young mountaineer, while the peaks around sud¬ 
denly fell fifty per cent, in my estimation. 

A July sun pretended to be shining, but we soon aftei 
came on fresh snow that had fallen the night before. 
Byron pelted Hillhouse on this spot with snow-balls-~i 
pelted my guide, though the poor fellow had not the 
faintest idea, as he dodged and ducked his head to escape 
' the balls, that I was making him stand as representative 
of Hillhouse. Before us rose the Jungfrau, clothed with 
snow of virgin purity from the base to the h ea yen- 
piercing summit. A deep ravine separates the path of the 
traveller from the mountain, which from its colossal size 
so destroys the effect of distance, that although miles in¬ 
tervene, it seems but a few rods off. 

Reaching the chalet near the summit, we stopped to 
rest and to hear the roar of avalanches, that fell every 
few minutes from the opposite mountains. I wish I 
could convey some idea of the stupendous scenery that 
here overwhelms the amazed spectator. Look up and 
up, and see the zenith cut all up with peaks, white as 
unsullied snow can make them, while ever and anon 
adown their pure bosoms streams the reckless avalanche, 
filling these awful solitudes with its thunder, till the heart 
stops and trembles in the bosom. I never before stood 
so humbled in the presence of nature. Sometimes yon 
would see the avalanches as they rushed down the moun¬ 
tain, and sometimes you caught only their roar, as they 
fell from the opposite side of some cliff, into a gulf, un¬ 
trod by foot of man or beast. 

Byron says, in his journal of the view from the summit 
« On one side our view comprised the Jungfrau with all 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


263 


her glaciers, then the Dent d’Argent, shining like truth; 
then the little giant and the great giant; and last, not 
least, the Wetterhorn. - Heard the avalanches falling 
every five minutes nearly. The clouds rose from the 
opposite valley curling up perpendicular precipices, like 
the foam of the ocean of hell during springtide—it was 
white and sulphury, and immeasurably deep in appear¬ 
ance.” 

The keeper of the chalet had a small mortar, which he 
fired off at our request. Ten distinct echoes came back. 
From deep and awful silence these innumerable peaks 
seemed aroused into a sudden and almost angry life. 
Eeport after report, like the rapid discharge of a whole 
bank of artillery, thundered through the clear air. At 
length the echoes one by one sunk slowly away, and I 
thought all was over. Fainter and fainter they grew 
till nothing but a low rumbling sound was heard in the 
distance, when suddenly, without warning or prepara¬ 
tion, there was a report like the blast of the last 
trumpet. I instinctively clapped my hands to my ears 
in affright. It came from the distant Wetterhorn, and 
rolled and rattled and stormed through the mountains, 
till it seemed as if every peak was loosened from its base, 
and all were falling and crushed together. It was abso¬ 
lutely terrific. Its fearful echo had scarcely died away 
before the avalanches which the sudden jar had loosened 
began to fall. Eight fell in almost as many minutes. 
The thunder of one blended in with the thunder of ano¬ 
ther, till one continuous roar passed along the mountains. 
The tumult ceased as suddenly as it commenced, and the 
deep and awful silence that followed was painful; and 
my imagination painted those falling masses of snow 
and ice as half-conscious monsters, crushed to death in 
the deep ravives. 

But every flight has its fall; and I was brought back 
to matters of fact effectually by the very respectful 
request of the man who fired the mortar for his pay. 
On asking how much he demanded I found that the ava¬ 
lanches had cost a trifle over three halfpence apiece, to 
say nothing of the echoes and the hurly burly in general. 
This was getting them dirt cheap, and I burst into a 
laugh that might have started another avalanche without 
any great violation of avalanche principles. 

But, seriously, this multiplication and increased power 


SKETCHES OF 


264 

of a single echo was something entirely new to me, and 
I could not have believed it possible had I not heard it. 
Speaking of it afterwards to a German professor, he 
remarked that the same thing once happened to him in 
the Tyrol. He was travelling with an English noble¬ 
man, and had come to a quiet lake amid the mountains 
on the shores of which the nobleman sat dropping peb¬ 
bles into the clear water and watching their descent to 
the bottom. The professor had heard of the wonderful 
echo in this spot; so, carefully drawing a pistol from his 
pocket, he suddenly fired it behind the Englishman. The 
report that followed was like the breaking up of the 
very foundations of nature. The nobleman clapped his 
hands to his ears and fell on his face, thinking an ava¬ 
lanche was certainly upon him. 

About two miles from this chalet is the summit of the 
pass, 6280 feet above the level of the sea, or higher than 
the highest mountain in the United States; — while 
around rises peaks seven thousand feet higher still. . The 
view from this is indescribable. The words “sublime,’* 
“grand,” “awful,” &c., cease to have a meaning here 
to one who has applied them to so much less objects. 
The mind reaches out for words to express its emotions 
and finds none. The Jungfrau or Virgin—now no longer 
virgin since a few adventurous feet have profaned the 
pure white summit—the Monch—the Great and Little 
Eighers, or giants, and peaks innumerable tear up the 
heavens on every side, while a mantle of snow is wrap¬ 
ped over all. Glaciers cling around these heaven high 
peaks and go streaming in awful splendour into the 
cavities between, where they flow out into icy seas from 
which the sunbeams flash back as from ten thousand 
silver helmets. On this spot, amid this savage and over¬ 
whelming scenery, Byron says, he composed a part of his 
Manfred. It is his own soliloquy as he gazes upward, 
that he puts in the mouth of Manfred. 

“Ye toppling crags of ice— 

Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
In mountainous o’erwhelming, come and crush me ! 

I hear ye momently above, beneath. 

Crush with a frequent conflict, but ye pass 
And only fall on things that still would live; 

On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
And hamlet of the harmless villager. 

The mists boil up amid the glaciers; clouds 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


265 


Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury 
Like foam from the roused ocean of deep hell,' 

There is no work of the fancy here, no creation of the 
poet—it is simple description—the plain English of what 
passes before the traveller who stands here in early sum¬ 
mer. The awful silence that follows the crash of an 
avalanche adds tenfold sublimity and solitude to the Alps. 

After having gazed our fill we mounted our animals 
and began to descend. But the snow-crust would give 
way every few steps, when down would go horse and 
rider. After having been thrown two or three times over 
the head of my animal, I picked myself up for the last 
time, and with the sullen unamiable remark that he might 
take care of himself, made my way on foot. Coming 
at length to solid ground I looked back to see how he got 
along, and could not but laugh at the sorry figure he cut 
in the snow. The crust would bear him for several steps, 
when down he would go to his girth. Extricating him¬ 
self with great care he would step gingerly along with 
nose close to the surface and half crouched up as if he ex¬ 
pected every moment another tumble. His expectations 
I must say were seldom disappointed, till at length when 
he came to where I stood he looked as meek and subdued 
as a whipped hound. 

Mounting, we rode away for the valley of Grindelwald. 


SKETCHES OF 





* IX. 

THE GRAND SCHEIDECK: AN AVA¬ 
LANCHE. 

The little valley of Grindelwald received us as we de¬ 
scended the Wengern Alp. Before entering it, as we 
passed down the mountain, up to our hips in snow, one 
of those picturesque scenes which so often occur in 
Switzerland burst upon us. From a deep valley directly 
beneath us, smiling in all the freshness of summer vege¬ 
tation, came the tinkling of hundreds of bells. The green 
pasturage was literally covered with herds of cattle, and 
flocks of goats. All around, rose the gigantic snow peaks 
and hung the fearful precipices, while there on that green 
secluded spot was the perfect impersonation of repose 
and quiet. The music of those countless bells rung and 
mingled in the clear mountain air in endless variations* 
and were sent back by the giant peaks, redoubled and 
multiplied, till there was a perfect storm of sound. As- 
I passed down through the snow, the echoes grew fainter 
and fainter, till the mountains held them all in their own 
bosom—yet that scene of quietness and beauty has left 
its impression for ever on my heart. 

As I descended into the valley of Grindelwald, and 
saw the brown huts sprinkled all over the distant slopes* 
I felt how hard it must be to conquer Switzerland. When 
an army had wound over the narrow and difficult pass* 
and driven back the hardy mountaineers, and burned up 
their homes, still they had not conquered them. Hid 
amid hollows and fastnesses, unknown to their enemies* 
they could put them at defiance for ever. 

While tea was preparing, I walked through the valley 
and passed the parsonage, into which the minister and his 
two daughters were just entering, from their evening 
walk. The valley lay in deep shadow, while the last 
sunbeams still lingered on a distant glacier, that shone 
like burnished silver in the departing light. That sweet 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


267 


parsonage, in that quiet spot, amid the everlasting Alps 
and the roar of its torrents and avalanches, seemed al¬ 
most beyond the reach of heart-sickening cares and dis¬ 
appointments. I grew weary of my roving, and felt that 
I had found at last one spot out of human ills. Just then., 
I remembered that the pastor and his two daughters were 
clad in deep mourning. “ Ah !” I sighed, as I turned away, 
“ death has been here, turning this quiet spot into a place 
of tears. He treads an Alpine valley with as firm a step 
and unrelenting a mien as the thronged street; and man 
may search the world all over, and he will only find at 
last a spot on which to grieve.” 

While at tea, three peasant girls came into the room 
and began one of their Alpine choruses, in that high, clear 
falsetto you hear nowhere but in Switzerland. These 
chaunts are singularly wild and thrilling, and in the pre¬ 
sent instance were full of sweetness; but their effect was 
lost the moment I remembered it was all done for money. 

The day had been one of toil, and the night was dis¬ 
turbed and restless. Unable to sleep, I rose about mid¬ 
night and looked out of my window, and lo! the moon 
hung right over a clear, cold glacier, that seemed almost 
within reach of my hand. The silent, white and mighty 
form looked like a monster from the unseen world, and I 
fairly shuddered as I gazed on it. It seemed to hang over 
the little hamlet like a cold and silent foe. In the morn¬ 
ing, I went under it. These masses of ice melt in the 
summer, where they strike the valley, and the superin¬ 
cumbent weight presses down, urging up rocks and earth 
that no power of man could stir. This slowly descend¬ 
ing glacier had done its share of this work, and had 
thrown up quite a hill, where it had plunged its mighty 
forehead in the earth ; but had encountered in its passage 
one rock that seemed a mere projection from the solid 
stratum below, and hence could not be moved. The 
glacier had therefore shoved slowly over it, leaving a 
cave running from the foot up to wheie the rock lay im¬ 
bedded in it. I entered this cave, and the green and blue 
roof was smooth as polished silver, while a pool at the 
bottom, acting as a mirror to this mirror, perfectly be¬ 
wildered the eye in looking in it. 

There are two glaciers that descend entirely into the 
valley, and push their frozen torrents against the bosoms 
of the green pasturages. Their silvery forms fringed with 


SKETCHES OF 


1268 

ftr trees, while their foreheads are bathed in the green 
meadow below, furnish a striking contrast to the sur¬ 
rounding scenery. One can ascend for nearly four miles 
along the margin of the lower glacier on his mule, and 
will be amply repaid for the trouble. It was on this 
glacier that the clergyman of Vevay, M. Mouron, was 
lost—the account of which is in almost every book of 
travels. It was supposed at first that his guide had 
murdered him; but after twelve days’ search his body was 
found at the bottom of a crevice in the ice, said to be 
seven hundred feet deep. A guide was let down to the 
bottom by a rope, with a lantern round his neck, and after 
descending twice in vain, the third time he was drawn 
up with the body in his arms. He was much broken and 
bruised, but it was impossible to tell whether he was 
killed instantly by the fall, or whether he lay crushed in 
that awful chasm, breathing his life away in protracted 
gasps. 

Mounting our horses, we started for the grand Schei- 
deck, nearly eight thousand feet above the level of the 
sea. As we approached that “ peak of tempests”—the 
Wetterhom—whose bare cliff rose straight up thousands 
of feet from the path to the regions of eternal snow, one 
of the guides exclaimed — a Voila! voila /” and another 
in German, “ Sehen sie ! sehen sie /” while I screamed in 
English, Look! look! And it was time to look; for 
from the topmost height of the Wetterhorn suddenly arose 
something like white dust, followed by a movement of a 
mighty mass, and the next moment an awful white form 
leaped away, and, with almost a single bound of more 
than two thousand feet,* came directly into our path a 
short distance before us. As it struck the earth, the 
crushed snow rose like vapour from the foot of a cata¬ 
ract, and rolled away in a cloud of mist over a hill of fir 
trees, which it sprinkled white in its passage. The shock 
was like a falling rock, and the echo sounded along the 
Alpine heights like the roll of far off cannon, and died 
away over their distant tops. One of the guides, be¬ 
longing to a Scotch gentleman who had that morning 
joined our party, was an old traveller in the Alps, and he 
said that in all his wanderings he had never seen any 

* The guide said between two and three thousand feet. I have tried 
•in vain to ascertain the exact distance from the top to the path. 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


269 


thing equal to it. That serene peak, resting far away up 
in the clear, rare atmosphere—the sudden commotion,, 
and that swift descending form of terror, are among the 
distinct and vivid things of memory. 

As we rounded the point where this avalanche struck., 
we came nearly under the most awful precipice that I 
ever saw or dreamed of. How high that perpendicular 
wall of Alpine limestone may be I dare not hazard a con¬ 
jecture, but it makes one hold his breath in awe and 
dread to look upon it. The highest church spire in 
America would have been a miniature toy beside it. 
Crawling along like mere insects past the base of this 
“ peak of tempests,” as its name signifies, we began to 
ascend the last slope of the grand Scheideck. When 
about half way up I stopped for a long time, hoping I 
might see another avalanche spring away from its high 
resting place. I was fairly out of harm’s way, and hence 
could enjoy the bold leap of a snow precipice from the 
cliffs of the Wetterhorn. I was the more anxious, as 
avalanches are generally, to the eye , mere slender torrents 
streaming down the mountain side. The distance 
dwindles the roaring, thundering mass to a mere rivulet,, 
but this was massive and awful enough for the gods 
themselves. But I waited in vain. The bright sun fell 
full on the dazzling top, but not a snow-wreath started, 
and I turned away disappointed towards the top of the 
pass. 

The descent into Meyringen was charming. After 
having passed through the Schwartzwald (dark wild)^ 
we came upon a perfectly level, smooth and green 
pasturage. A gentle rivulet skirted one side of it, while 
at one end stood a single Swiss cottage. I left the path 
that went into the hills from the farther corner, and rode 
to the end and looked back. From my horse’s feet, up 
to the very cliffs that frown in savage grandeur over it, 
went that sweet greensward; while at the left rose a 
glacier of the purest white that fairly dazzled the eyes 
as the sunbeams fell in their noontide splendour upon it. 
That beautiful, quiet plat of ground—the dark fir trees 
environing it—the cliffs that leaned above it, and that 
spiritually white glacier contrasting with the bright 
green below, combined to form a group and a picture 
that seemed more like a vision than a real scene. I 
gazed in silent rapture upon it, drinking in the beauty 


SKETCHES OP 


270 

and strangeness of that scene, till I longed to pitch ray 
tent there for ever. That level greensward seemed to 
rest like a fearless, innocent child in the rough embrace 
of the great forms around it. It was to me the gem of 
Alpine vallies. 

There is no outward emblem of peace and quietness so 
striking as one of these green spots amid the Alps. The 
surface of a summer lake stirred by no breeze—the quiet 
night and quieter stars are not so full of repose. The 
contrast is not so great. Place that quiet lake amid 
roaring billows, and the repose it symbolised would be 
doubly felt. So amid the Alps. The awful scenery that 
folds in one of these sweet pots of greensward makes it 
seem doubly sweet and green. It imparts a sort of con¬ 
sciousness to the whole, as if there was a serene trust, a 
feeling of innocence in the brightly smiling meadow. It 
seems to let itself be embraced by those rude and terrific 
forms without the least fear, and smiles back in their 
stern and savage faces, as if it knew it could not be 
harmed. And the snow peaks and threatening precipices 
look as if proud of their innocent child, guarding it with 
savage tenderness. What beauty God has scattered over 
the earth! On the frame-work of the hills, and the 
valleys they enclose—on cliff and stream, sky and earth. 
He has drawn the lines of beauty and grandeur with a 
pencil that never errs. But especially amid the Alps 
does he seem to have wrought with sublimest skill. All 
over its peaks and abysses has he thrown the mantle of 
Majesty; while its strong avalanches, falling all alone 
into solitudes where the foot of man has never trod, and 
the wing of the eagle never stooped, speak “ eternally of 
Him.” “ The ice hills,” as they leap away from their 
high resting place, “ thunder God !” 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE, 


271 



X. 


VALLEY OF MEYRINGEN.—PASS OF 

BRUNIG. 

As we descended into Meyringen, a Swiss peasant girl 
came running up to me with an Alpine rose in her hand. 
If it had been a spontaneous gift, I could have mused 
over it for an hour; but given, as it was, for money, 
destroyed its value, and I placed it in my pocket to pre¬ 
serve for an American friend, to whom I never designed 
to mention the circumstance under which it was ob¬ 
tained. I stopped a moment to look at the Seilbach 
(rope fall), as it hung in a long white thread from the 
cliff; and at the roaring torrent of the Reichenbach, and 
then passed into the valley, which was resting below in 
all the quietness of a summer scene. 

One has peculiar feelings in entering an Alpine valley 
by one of these fearful passes. The awful cliffs that have 
frowned over him—the savage gorges up which his eye 
has strained—the torrents and avalanches and everlast¬ 
ing snow that have rolled, and fallen, and spread around 
him, have thrown his whole nature into a tumult of ex¬ 
citement. And this stupendous scenery has gone on 
changing, from grand to awful, till feelings of horror 
have become mingled with those of sublimity; so that 
when his eye first rests on one of these sweet valleys 
smiling in the sunlight, with flocks and herds scattered 
over its bosom, and peasants’ cottages standing amid the 
smooth greensward, the transition and contrast are so 
great, that the quietness and repose of Eden seem sud¬ 
denly opened before him. From those wild and tom 
mountains, that have folded in the path so threateningly, 
the heart emerges into one of these valleys, like the tor¬ 
rent along whose course he has trod in awe. The foam¬ 
ing cataracts and dark ravines are all passed, and the 
placid stream moves, like a smile, through the quiet 
landscape. 

Bat this valley, so bright the first day we entered it. 


SKETCHES OF 


272 , 

became dreary enough before we left it. One of those 
dark, driving Alpine storms set in, and for three days we 
could not place foot out of doors. The chief beauty of 
the valley consists in the two steep parallel ranges of 
hills enclosing it, now and then changing into cliffs, 
along which white cascades hang, as if suspended there, 
while far distant snow peaks rise over one another m 
every direction. The Lake of Brienze peeps modestly 
into the farther end of it, enclosed by its ramparts of 
mountains. Taking a carriage to the head of the lake, 
we there hired a boat to Gnesbaek falls. A man and. 
his wife rowed us. After clambering up and down the 
falls, and under them, and seeing logs which one of the 
party threw in above, leap away from their brink, we 
went in to see the “ Old Schoolmaster,” and hear him 
and his children and grandchildren sing Alpine songs, 
while the white waterfall played a sort of bass accom¬ 
paniment. The singing was very fine—the best we 
heard in Switzerland, and after having purchased some 
nick-nacks and music, and paid beforehand for a farewell 
on the Alp-horn, which is said to sound very finely from 
this position, we embarked once more upon the lake. 
The “ Old Schoolmaster” told us it was far better to 
hear the Alp-horn when we had got out on the lake. 
Never supposing he would deceive us, we laid by on 
our oars for a long time, but in vain. He had fair y 

Je Th(f cliffs around this valley send down fearful torrents 
in the spring, one of which—the Alpbach—has once 
buried a large part of the village twenty feet deep with 
mud and stones. The church was filled eighteen feet 
deep, and the black line, indicating the high water mark, 
is still visible on the walls. The last leap of the Alpbach 
is right over a precipice clear into the valley. From the 
peculiar manner in which the sun strikes it, a triple 
rainbow is formed—one of them making a complete 
circle around your feet. To see this last, it is necessary 
to enter the mist, and take a beautiful drenching ; but 1 
was repaid for it, by seeing myself, once in my life, with 
a real halo around me, and that too around my feet . 
The beautiful ring held me in its embrace like an en¬ 
chanted circle, until the drenching mist, having finally 
penetrated to my skin, broke the charm. I went shiver- 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 273 

rag home, protesting against rainbows being put in such 
inconvenient places. 

The pass of the Brunig is a mere bridle-path, but it 
presents nothing striking to the traveller, except the 
charming view of the valley of Meyringen, from its 
summit. It is a perfect picture. 

The lake of Lungern, which we passed soon after de¬ 
scending the Brunig, presents a most singular appear¬ 
ance. It has been drained twenty feet below its original 
level, and the steep banks that mark its former height, 
surround it like some old ruined wall. The Kaisertuhl, a 
high ridge, was stretched across the foot of the lake, 
forming a natural dam, and heaping up the water twenty 
feet higher than the valley below. A tunnel, 1,300 feet 
long, was bored through this, with only a thin partition 
of rock left to hold back the flood. Five hundred men 
were employed on it, relieving each other constantly, and 
for several hours at a time : for the impossibility of ven¬ 
tilating the tunnel from above, made the air very foul and 
dangerous. When the work was completed, and flood¬ 
gates constructed below to graduate the rush of the 
water, nine hundred and fifty pounds of powder were 
placed in the farther extremity of the tunnel. It was 
midwinter, and the lake frozen over, but multitudes 
assembled on the morning appointed for the explosion to 
witness the result. The surrounding hills were covered 
with spectators, when a cannon-shot from the Kaiserstuhl, 
answered by another from the Laudenberg, announced 
that the hour had arrived. A daring Swiss entered the 
tunnel and fired the train. He soon reappeared in safety, 
while the vast multitude stood in breathless anxiety, 
waiting the explosion. The leaden minutes wore on, 
yet no one felt the shock.—At length, at the end of ten 
minutes, just as they had concluded it was a failure, two 
distinct though dull reports were heard. The ice lay 
smooth and unbroken as ever, and there was a second 
disappointment, for all supposed the mine had not burst 
through the partition. But, at length, there was a shout 
from below, and a black stream of mud and water was 
seen to issue from the opening, showing that the work 
was done. This drainage was to recover a large tract of 
land, which was a mere swamp. The object was secured, 
but the land is hardly worth the tilling. The geologist, 
s 


274 


SKETCHES OF 


however, will regard the portion laid bare with 

^Aerwe approached Lucerne, we passed the location of 
the famous^Alpnach slide, made during the time of Bona¬ 
parte, for the purpose of bringing timber for ship-building 
from the mountains. It was eight miles long, ^ be¬ 
tween three and four feet wide, and was made of logs 

fastened together, so as to form a sort of trough. This 
trough went across frightful gorges, and in some instances 
under ground. A rill of water was directed into it to 
lessen the friction, and prevent the logs from taking fire, 
A tree, a hundred feet long and four feet in diameter, 
■would shoot this eight miles in six minutes. M hen one 
of these logs bolted from the trough, it would shoot like 
an arrow through the air, and if it came in contact with 
a tree, would cut it clean in two. The whole work is 

n °Connng, (> a^iength, to Lake Lucerne, we took a boat 
and rowers, and set oft for the town that standss so'beau¬ 
tifully at its foot. I had been for some days in the heart 
of the Oberland, which contains the wildest scenery in the 
Alps My meat had been mostly the flesh of the chamois, 

while the men and habitations I had passed seemed to 

belong to another world. In one instance, I had see 
man carrying boards strapped on his back, between three 
and four miles to his hut, on the high pasturage grounds. 
There was no other way of getting them there. These 
huts or cottages (just as one likes to call them), with 
their high walls and overhanging roof loaded with stones 
and rocks, to keep them from being blown off when the 
fierce Alpine storm is on his march, have an odd look , 
though they are sometimes very picturesque, from their 

P °Frmn such scenery and dwellings the sight of a town 
and houses was like a sudden waking up from some 
strange dream. 


TIIE ALPS AND THE RHINE, 


275 


XI. 

SUWARROW’S PASSAGE OF THE PRAGEL. 

At the head of Lake Lucerne stands the little village of 
Fluellen. It was here that Suwarrow, after forcing the 
passage of St. Gothard, was finally stopped in his 
victorious course. The lake stretched away before him, 
while there was not a boat with which to transport his 
weary army over. There was no other course left, him 
on his route to Zurich but to ascend the heights of the 
Kinzig Culm, a desperate undertaking at the best; and 
cross into the Muotta Thai. This wonderful retreat was 
made while his army, as it hung along the cliff's, was 
constantly engaged in resisting the attack of the enemy. 

It was forty-six years ago, one night in September, 
that the peaceful inhabitants of the Muotta Thai were 
struck with wonder at the appearance among them of 
multitudes of armed men of a strange garb and language. 
They had just gathered their herds and flocks to the fold, 
and were seeking their quiet homes that slept amid the 
green pasturage-s, when, like a mountain torrent, came 
pouring out from every defile and giddy pass, these 
strange, unintelligible beings. From the heights of the 
Kinzig Culm—from the precipices the shepherds scarce 
dared to tread, they came streaming with their confused 
jargon around the cottages of these simple children of 
the Alps. It was Suwarrow, with twenty-four thousand 
Russians at his back, on his march from Italy to join the 
allied forces at Zurich. He had forced the passage of 
St. Gothard, and had reached thus far when he was 
stopped by Lake Lucerne, and was told that Kor- 
sakow and the main Russian army at Zurich had been 
defeated. Indignant, and incredulous at the report, he 
would have hung the peasant who informed him, as a 
spy, had not the lady-mother of St. Joseph’s Nunnery 
interceded in his behalf. Here in this great Alpine valley 
the bold commander found himself completely surround¬ 
ed. Molitor and his battalions looked down on him 


S7G 


SKETCHE3 ©E 


from the heights around the Muotta Thai: Mortier and 

thp historv of man. The passage of the bt. Rernara, uy 
Ronaoarte was a comfortable march compared to it, and 
Hannibal's world-renowned exploit mere child s p ay, 
beside it While the head of Suwarrow’s column had 
descended the Pragel and was fi 8htmg desperately 
T\TapfV>l<< the rear-guard, encumbered with the » 

wafstm^Ung in the Muotta Thai with Massena and 
his battalions. Then these savage solitudes shook to the 
thunder of cannon and roar of musketry. The startled 
avalanche came leaping from the heights m.n|Ung its 

sullen thunder with the sound of batt ' e ‘ h| e i" S ' !™ee 
chamois paused on the high precipice to catch the strange 

uproar that filled the hills. The ^“l^blttUng 6 armS" 
saw their green pasturages covered with battling armies, 

and the snow-capped heights crimson with the blood of 
men Whole companies fell like snow-wreaths from the 
rocks while the artillery ploughed through the den ^ 
of human flesh that darkened the gorge be [ °J' mhated 
successive days had these armies marched and combated, 
and yet here, on the eleventh, they struggled witli una 
abated resolu tion. Unable to force the passage at Naefela, 
Suwarrow took the desperate and awful resolution of 
leading his weary and wounded army over the mountains 

into the Orisons. . „ . . _ 

Imagine, if you can, an awful solitude of mountains 

and precipices and glaciers piled one above another in 
savage grandeur. Cast your eye up one of these moun¬ 
tains, 7,500 feet above the level of the sea, along whose 
bosom in a zigzag line, goes a narrow path winding over 
precipices and snow-fields till finally lost on the distant 
summit. Up that difficult path and into the very heart, 
of those fearful snow-jleaks has the bold Russian resolved 
to lead his 24,000 men. 

To increase the difficulties that beset him and render 
his destruction apparently inevitable, the snow fell, on 
the morning he set out, two feet deep, obliterating ai 
traces of the path, and forming as it were a winding 



THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


277 


sheet for his army. In single file, and •with heavy hearts, 
that mighty host one after another entered the snow¬ 
drifts and began the ascent. Only a few miles could be 
made the first day, and at night, without a cottage in 
sight, without even a tree to kindle for a light around 
their silent bivouacs, the army lay down in the snow 
with the Alpine crags around them for their sentinels. 
The next day the head of the column reached the summit 
of the ridge, and lo ! what a scene was spread out before 
them. No one who has not stood on an Alpine summit 
can have any conception of the utter dreariness of this 
region. The mighty mountains, as far as the eye can 
reach, lean along the solemn sky, while the deep silence 
around is broken by the sound of no living thing. Only 
now and then the voice of the avalanche is heard speak¬ 
ing in its low thunder tone from the depth of an awful 
abyss, or the scream of a solitary eagle circling round 
some lofty crag. The bold Russian stood arid gazed long 
and anxiously on this scene, and then turned to look on 
his straggling army that far as the eye could reach wound 
like a hugh anaconda over the white surface of the snow. 
No column of smoke arose in this desert wild to cheer 
the sight, but all was silent, mournful and prophetic. 
The winding sheet of the army seemed unrolled before 
him. No path guided their footsteps, and ever and anon 
a bayonet and feather disappeared together as some poor 
soldier slipped on the edge of a precipice and fell into 
the abyss below. Hundreds overcome and disheartened, 
or exhausted with their previous wounds, laid down to 
die, while the cold wind, as it swept by, soon wrought 
a snow'-shroud for their forms. The descent on the 
southern side was worse than the ascent. A freezing 
wind had hardened the snow into a crust, so that it fre¬ 
quently bore the soldiers. Their bayonets were thrust 
into it to keep them from slipping, and the weary and 
worn creatures were compelled to struggle every step to 
prevent being borne away over the precipices that almost 
momentarily stopped their passage. Yet even this pre¬ 
caution was often vain. Whole companies would begin 
to slide together, and despite every effort would sweep 
with a shriek over the edge of the precipice and dis¬ 
appear in the untrodden gulfs below. Men saw their 
comrades, by whose side they had fought in many a 
battle, shoot one after another, over the dizzy verge. 


SKETCHES OF 


striking with their bayonets as they went, to stay then? 
progress. The beasts of burden slipped from above, and 
rolling down on the ranks below, shot away in wild con¬ 
fusion, men and all, into the chasms that yawned at their 
feet. As they advanced, the enemy appeared around on 
the precipices pouring a scattered yet destructive fire 
into the straggling multitude. Such a sight these Alpine 
solitudes never saw—such a march no army ever made 
before. In looking at this pass the traveller cannot be¬ 
lieve an army of 24,000 men were marched over it 
through the fresh fallen snow two feet deep. For five 
days they struggled amid these gorges and over these 
ridges, and finally reached the Rhine at Ilanz. For 
months after, the vulture and the eagle hovered inces¬ 
santly along the line of march, and beasts of prey were 
gorged with the dead bodies. Nearly 8,000 men lay 
scattered among the glaciers and rocks, and piled in the 
abysses, amid which they had struggled for eighteen days 
since he first poured down from the St. Gothard, and the 
peasants say that the bones of many an unburied soldier 
may still be seen bleaching in the ravines of the Jatser. 

No Christian or philanthropist ever stood on a battle 
field without mourning over the ravages of war and ask¬ 
ing himself when that day would come when men would 
beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into 
pruning hooks. Yet the evil is not felt in all its dread¬ 
ful reality there. The movement of the armies—the 
tossing of plumes—the unrolling of banners—the stirring 
strains of martial music—the charging squadrons, and 
the might and magnificence of a great battle field disturb 
the imagination and check the flow of human sympathy. 

If he wishes the feelings of horror and disgust in their 
full strength, let him go into the solitude and holiness of 
nature, and see where her pure bosom has been disfigured 
with the blood of her children. Let him see his fellow 
beings falling by thousands, not amid the uproar and ex¬ 
citement of battle, but under exhaustion, heart-sickness, 
and despair. Let him behold the ranks lying down one 
after another under the last discouragement to die, while 
their comrades march mournful and silent by. There is 
a cold-bloodedness, a sort of savage malice about this 
that awakens all the detestation of the human bosom. 

Yet the Russian could do no better. The scourge of 
nations had driven him into the strait. The crime and 


THE ALPS AND THE KIIINE. 


279 


the judgment belong to Bonaparte, who thus directly and 
indirectly crowded his generation into the grave. Suwar- 
row’s act was that of a brave and resolute man. 


XII. 

MACDONALD’S PASS OF THE SPLUGEN. 

I was standing on a green Alpine pasturage, looking off 
upon the Splugen Pass which cut its way through the 
white snow ridge that lay against the distant horizon, 
when my guard interrupted my musings by pointing to 
an aged man sitting by his cottage door. “ That man,” 
said he, “ was one of Macdonald’s guides that conducted 
him and his army over the Splugen.” He immediately 
became an object of great interest to me, and I went and 
sat down by his side, and drew from him many incidents 
of that perilous adventure. “It was forty-three years 
ago,” said he, “ when that awful march was made. I 
was then but twenty-five years of age, but I remember it 
as if it were but yesterday. I have made many passes 
in the Alps, but never one like that. That Macdonald 
was an awful man. He looked as if he wanted to fight 
the very Alps, and believed that snow-storms could be 
beaten like an army of men.” 

“ I believe,” I replied, “ that pass was made in the 
winter, when even foot travellers found it difficult.” 
•“Yes; and the wind blew, and the snow drove in our 
faces, and the avalanches fell as if the very Alps were 
coming down. The snow, too, was so thick at times, 
that we could not see the horses or men ten rods before 
or behind, while the screaming, and yelling, and cursing, 
made it ten times worse. Why, sir, it did no good to cry 
take care , for no one could take care. There we were, up 
to our arms in snow, amid oxen, and horses, and cannon, 
and soldiers, and compelled to stand for hours, without 
getting one rod ahead. Oh, it was dreadful to see the 
poor soldiers. Often I would hear an avalanche coming 
from above, and turn to see where it fell, when it would 
come thundering straight on to the army, and cut it clean 



280 


SKETCHES OF 


in two, leaving a great gap in the lines. A few 
feathers tossing amid the snow, a musket or two flying 
over the brink, and away went men and all into the 
gulf below. Oh, sir, these poor soldiers looked as if they 
never would fight again—so downcast and frightened. 
It did no good to have courage there, for what could 
courage do against an avalanche! When God fights 
with man, it does no good to resist.” In this manner, 
though not in the precise words, the old man rattled on, 
and it was evident I could get nothing from him except 
separate incidents which gave life and vividness to the 
whole picture. The falling of a single comrade by his 
side, or the struggles of a single war-horse, as he floun¬ 
dered in the mass of snow that hurried him irresistibly to¬ 
wards the gulf, made a more distinct impression on him. 
than the general movements of the army. The deep beds 
of snow and the walls of ice he and the peasants were 
compelled to cut through, were mtfre important to him 
than the order of march, or the discipline of the troops. 
How different is the effect produced on a powerful and a 
common mind by such a scene as this! One dwells on 
the impression made by the whole. The moral and 
physical grandeur surrounding it—the obstacles, and the 
resolution that overcome them—the savageness of na¬ 
ture, and the sternness that dared look it in the face; 
combine to make the impression he carries with him 
through life. The weak mind, on the other hand, never 
seems to reach to these generalities—never gets to the 
outer circle, but is occupied with details and incidents. 

To understand this march of Macdonald over the 
Splugen, a feat greater by far than Bonaparte’s famous 
passage of the St. Bernard, imagine an awful defile 
leading up to the height of six thousand , five hundred 
feet towards heaven—in summer a mere bridle path, and 
in winter a mass of avalanches, and you will have some 
conception of the awful pass through which Macdonald 
determined to lead fifteen thousand men. The road 
follows the Rhine, here a mere rivulet, which has cut its 
channel deep in the mountains that rise frequently to the 
height of three thousand feet above it. Along the pre¬ 
cipices that overhang this turbulent torrent, the path is 
cut in the solid rock, now hugging the mountain wall 
like a mere thread, and now shooting in a single arch 
over the gorge that sinks three hundred feet below. 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


281 


Strangely silent snow-peaks pierce the heavens in every 
direction, while dark precipices lean out on every side 
over the abyss. This mere path crosses and re-crosses 
again this gorge, and often so high above it, that the 
roar of the mad torrent below can scarcely be heard; 
and finally strikes off on to the bare face of the mountain 
and clambers up to the summit. This is the old road in 
summer time. Now imagine this same gorge swept by a 
hurricane of snow, and filled with the awful sound of 
the falling avalanches, blending their heavy shock with 
the dull roar of the giant pines, that wave along the 
precipices, while half way up from the bottom to the 
Alpine top, are hanging like an army of insects, fifteen 
thousand French soldiers ; and you will approach to some 
knowledge of this wintry pass, and this desperate march. 
But if you have never been in an Alpine gorge, and stood, 
awe-struck, amid the mighty forms that tower away on 
every side around you, you can have no true conception 
of a scene like the one we are to describe. Rocks, going 
like one solid wall straight up to heaven—pinnacles 
shooting like church spires above the clouds—gloomy 
ravines where the thunder-clouds burst, and the torrent 
raves—still glaciers and solemn snow-fields, and leaping 
avalanches, combine to render an Alpine gorge one of 
the most terrific things in nature. Added to all this, you 
feel so small amid the mighty forms around you—so 
utterly helpless and worthless, amid these great exhibi¬ 
tions of God’s power, that the heart is often utterly 
overwhelmed with the feelings that struggle in vain for 
utterance. 

There is now a carriage road over the Splugen, cut in 
sixteen zigzags aloDg the breasts of the mountain. This 
was not in existence when Macdonald made the pass, 
and there was nothing but a bridle path going through 
the gorge of the Cardinel. Over such a pass was 
Macdonald ordered by Napoleon to march his army in 
the latter part of November, just when the wintry storms 
are setting in with the greatest violence. Bonaparte 
wished Macdonald to form the left wing of his army in 
Italy, and had therefore ordered* him to attempt the 
passage. Macdonald, though no braver or bolder man 
ever lived, felt that it was a hopeless undertaking, and 
immediately despatched General Dumas to represent to 
him the insuperable obstacles in the way. Bonaparte 


SKETCHES OF 


282 

heard him through his representations, and then replied, 
with his usual recklessness of other people’s sufferings 
or death, “ I will make no change in my dispositions. 
Return quickly, and tell Macdonald that an army can 
always pass in every season, where two men can place 

their feet.” . 

Macdonald, of course, could do no otherwise than 
obey commands, and immediately commenced the neces¬ 
sary preparations for his desperate undertaking. It was 
the 26th of November, and the frequent storms had 
covered the entire Alps, pass and all, in one mass of 
yielding snow. His army was at the upper Rheinthal or 
Rhine valley, at the entrance ot the dreadful defile of 
the Via Mala, the commencement of the Splugen pass. 
The cannon were taken from their carriages and placed 
on sleds, to which oxen were harnessed. The ammu¬ 
nition was divided about on the backs of mules, while 
every soldier had to carry, besides his usual arms, five 
packets of cartridges and five days’ provision. The 
guides went in advance, and stuck down long black poles 
to indicate the course of the path beneath, while behind 
them came the workmen clearing away the snow, and 
behind them still the mounted dragoons, with the most 
powerful horses of the army, to beat down the track. 
On the 26th of November, the first company left Splugen, 
and began the ascent. The pass from Splugen to Isola 
is about fifteen miles in length, and the advance company 
bad, after the most wasting toil and exhausting effort, 
made nearly half of it, and were approaching the hospice 
on the summit, when a low moaning was heard among 
the hills, like the voice of the sea before a storm. The 
guides understood too well the meaning, and gazed on 
each other with alarm. The ominous sound grew louder 
every moment, and suddenly the fierce Alpine blast 
swept in a cloud of snow over the mountain, and 
howled, like an unchained demon, through the gorge 
below. In an instant all was confusion, and blindness, 
and uncertainty. The very heavens were blotted out, and 
the frightened column stood and listened to the raving 
tempest that made the pine trees above it sway and 
groan, as if lifted from their rock-rooted places. But sud¬ 
denly another still more alarming sound was heard—“ An 
avalanche! an avalanche!” shrieked the guides, and the 
next moment an awful white form came leaping down 


THE ALrS AND THE RHINE. 


283 


the mountain, and striking the column that was struggling 
along the path, passed straight through it into the gulf 
below, carrying thirty dragoons and their horses with it 
in its wild plunge. The black form of a steed and its rider 
were suspended for a moment in the mid heavens, amid 
clouds of snow, and the next moment they fell among 
the ice and rocks below, crushed out of the very form of 
humanity. The head of the column reached the hospice 
in safety. The other part, struck dumb by this sudden 
apparition crossing their path in such lightning-like 
velocity, bearing to such an awful death their brave 
comrades, refused to proceed, and turned back to the 
village of Splugen. For three days the storm raged amid 
the Alps, filling the heavens with snow, and hurling 
avalanches into the path, till it became so tilled up that 
the guides declared it would take fifteen days to open it 
again so as to make it at all passable. But fifteen days 
Macdonald could not spare. Independent of the urgency 
of his commands, there was no way to provision his army 
in these Alpine solitudes, and he must proceed. He 
ordered four of the strongest oxen that could be found to 
be led in advance by the best guides. Forty peasants 
followed behind, clearing away and beating down the 
snow, and two companies of sappers came after to give 
still greater consistency to the track, while on their heels 
marched the remnant of the company of dragoons, part 
of which had been borne away three days before by the 
avalanche. The post of danger was given them at their 
own request. Scarcely had they begun the dangerous 
enterprise, when one of the noble oxen slipped from the 
precipice, and with a convulsive fling of his huge frame, 
went bounding from point to point of the jagged rocks 
to the deep, dark torrent below. 

It was a strange sight for a wintry day. Those three 
oxen, with their horns just peering above the snow, 
foiled slowly on, pushing their unwieldy bodies through 
the drifts, looking like mere specks on the breast of the 
mountain, while the soldiers, up to their breasts, 
struggled behind. Not a drum or bugle-note cheered the 
solitude, or awoke the echoes of those savage peaks. 
The foot-fall gave back no sound in the soft snow, and 
the words of command seemed smothered in the very 
atmosphere. Silently and noiselessly the mighty but 
disordered column toiled forward, with naught to break 


SKETCHES OF 


284 

the holy silence of nature, save the fierce pantings of the 
horses and animals, as with reeking sides they strained 
up the ascent. Now and then a fearful cry startled the 
eagle on his high circuit, as a whole company slipped 
together, and with their muskets in their hands, fell into 
the all-devouring gorge that yawned hundreds of feet 
below their path. It was a wild sight, the plunge of a 
steed and his rider over the precipice. One noble horse 
slipped just as the dragoon had dismounted, and as he 
darted off with his empty saddle, and for a moment 
hung suspended in mid heavens, it is said, he uttered one 
of those fearful blood-freezing cries the wounded war- 
horse is known sometimes to give forth on the field of 
battle. The roar of the lion after his prey, and the mid¬ 
night howl of the wolf that has missed his evening 
repast of blood, is a gentle sound compared to it. Once 
heard, it lives in the memory and brain for ever. 

To understand the route of the army better, one should 
divide the pass into three parts. First comes the dark, 
deep defile, with the path cut in the side of the mountain, 
and crossing backwards and forwards over the gorge, on 
bridges of a single arch, and often two and three hundred 
feet high. The scenery in this gorge is horrible. It 
seems as if nature had broken up the mountains in some 
sudden and fierce convulsion, and the very aspect of 
everything is enough to daunt one without the aid of 
avalanches or hurricanes of snow. After leaving this 
defile, the path goes for a few miles through the valley of 
Schams, and then winds up the cliffs of La Raffia, covered 
with pine trees. It then strikes up the bare face of the 
mountain, going sometimes at an angle of forty-five 
degrees, till it reaches the summit; which, lying above 
the region of trees, stands naked and bald in the wintry 
heavens. This is the old road—the new one goes by a 
different route, and in summer-time can be traversed 
with carriages. Such was the road, filled with snow and 
avalanches, this army of fifteen thousand men marched 
over in mid winter. They went over in separate columns. 
The progress and success of the first we have already 
shown. The second and third made the attempt the 
second and third of December, and achieved the ascent 
in safety, the weather being clear and frosty. Many, 
however, died of cold. Their success encouraged Mac¬ 
donald to march the whole remaining army over at once, 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


285 


and for this purpose he placed himself at their head, and 
on the 5th of December commenced the ascent. But 
fresh snow had fallen the night before, covering up the 
entire path, so that the road had all to be made over 
again. The guides refused to go on, but Macdonald 
would not delay his march, and led his weary soldiers 
breast deep in the snow, up the bleak, cold mountain. 
They were six hours in going less than six miles. They 
could not make a mile an hour in their slow progress. 
They had not advanced far in the defile before they came 
upon a huge block of ice, and a newly-fallen avalanche, 
that entirely filled up the path. The guides halted before 
these obstacles and refused to go on, and the first that 
Macdonald knew, his army had turned to the right-about 
face, and were marching back down the mountain, de¬ 
claring the passage to be closed. 

Hastening forward, he cheered up the men, and walking 
himself at the head of the column with a long pole in his 
hand, to sound the depth of the treacherous mass he was 
treading upon, he revived the drooping spirits of the 
soldiers. “ Soldiers,” said he, a your destinies call you 
into Italy; advance and conquer—first the mountains 
and the snow, then the plains and the armies.” Ashamed 
to see their leader hazarding his life at every step where 
they refused to go, the soldiers returned cheerfully to 
their toil, and cut their way through the solid hill of ice. 
But they had scarcely surmounted this obstacle, when 
the voice of the hurricane on its march was again heard, 
and the next moment a cloud of driving snow obliterated 
every thing from their view. The path was filled up, 
and all traces of it swept utterly away. Amid the 
screams of the guides, the confused commands of the 
officers, and the howling of the hurricane, was heard the 
rapid thunder-crash of avalanches as they leaped away, 
at the bidding of the tempest, down the precipices. 
Then commenced again the awful struggle of the army 
for life. The foe they had to contend with was an out¬ 
ward one, though not of flesh and blood. To sword-cut, 
bayonet-thrust, and the blaze of artillery, the strong 
Alpine storm was alike invulnerable. On the serried 
column and the straggling line, it thundered with the 
same reckless power. Over the long black line of sol¬ 
diers, the snow lay like a winding-sheet, and the dirge 
seemed already chaunted for the dead army. No one who 


28G 


SKETCHES OF 


has not seen an Alpine storm can imagine the reckless* 
energy with which it rages through the mountains. The 
light snow, borne aloft on its bosom, was whirled and 
scattered like an ocean of mist over all things. The drifts 
were piled like second mountains in every direction, and 
seemed to form instantaneously, as by the touch of a 
magician’s wand. The blinding fury of the tempest 
baffled all efforts to pierce the mystery and darkness that 
enveloped the host clinging in despair to the breast of the 
mountain. The storm had sounded its trumpet for the 
charge, but no answering note of defiance replied. The 
heroes of so many battle fields stood in still terror before 
this new and mightier foe. Crowding together as if 
proximity added to their security, the mighty column 
crouched and shivered to the blast that pierced their very 
bones with its chilling power. But this was not all— 
the piercing cold, and drifting snow, and raving tempest, 
and concealed pit-falls, leading to untrodden abysses, 
were not enough to complete the scene of terror. Sud¬ 
denly, from the summit of the Splugen, avalanches began 
to fall, whose path crossed that of the army. Scaling the 
breast of the mountain with a single leap, they came with 
a crash on the shivering column, and bore it away to the 
destruction that waited beneath. Still, with undaunted 
front and unyielding will, the bold Macdonald struggled on 
in front, inspiring by his example, as he never could have 
done by his commands, the officers and men under him. 
Prodig^s were wrought where effort seemed useless.. 

1 he first avalanche, as it smote through the column, 
paralyzed for a moment every heart with fear; but they 
soon began to be viewed like so many discharges of 
artillery and the gaps they made, like the gaps a dis- 
charge of grape-shot frequently made in the lines on a 
field of battle. Those behind closed up the rent with 
unfaltering courage Hesitation was death. The only 
hope was in advancing, and the long and straggling line 

-. 0u 1 p erer on snow, like a huge anaconda winding 

itself over the mountain. Once, as an avalanche cut 
through the ranks, bearing them awav to the abyss, a 
young man was seen to wave an adieu to his young 
comrade left behind, as he disappeared over the crag. 

e surviving companion stept into the path where it had 
swept, and before he had crossed it, a laggard block of 
ce came thundering down, and bore him away to join. 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


287 


his comrade in the gulf where his crushed form still lay 
throbbing. The extreme density of the atmosphere, 
filled as it was with snow, gave tenfold horror to these 
mysterious messengers of death, as they came down the 
mountain declivities. A low rumbling would be heard 
amid the pauses of the storm, and as the next shriek of 
the blast swept by, a rushing, as if a counter-blast smote 
the ear; and before the thought had time to change, a 
rolling, leaping, broken mass of snow burst through the 
thick atmosphere, and the next moment, crushed, with 
the sound of thunder, far, far below, bearing along a part 
of the column to its deep, dark resting-place. 

On the evening of the 6th of December, the greater 
part of the army had passed the mountain, and the van 
had pushed even to Lake Como. From the 26th of 
November to the 6th of December, or nearly two weeks, 
had Macdonald been engaged in this perilous pass. A 
less energetic, indomitable man would have failed, and he 
himself had escaped utter destruction, almost by a 
miracle. As it was, he left between one and two hun¬ 
dred men in the abysses of the Splugen, who had slipped 
from the precipices or been carried away by avalanches, 
during the toilsome march. More than a hundred horses 
and mules had also been hurled into those untrodden 
abysses, to furnish food for the eagle, and raven, and 
beasts of prey. 

This passage of the Splugen, by an army of fifteen 
thousand men, in the dead of winter, and amid hurricanes 
of snow and falling avalanches, stands unrivalled in the 
history of the world, unless the passage of the Pragel by 
Suwarrow be its counterpart. It is true, Bonaparte spoke 
disparagingly of it, because he wished his passage over 
the St. Bernard in summer time, to stand alone beside 
Hannibal’s famous march over the same mountain. With 
all his greatness, Bonaparte had some miserably mean 
traits of character. He could not bear to have one of his 
generals perform a greater feat than himself, and so he 
deliberately lied about this achievement of Macdonald’s. 
In his despatches to the French government, he made it 
out a small affair, while he had the impudence to declare 
that this “ march of Macdonald produced no good effect.” 
Now one of three things is true: Bonaparte either was 
ignorant of his true situation, and commanded the passage 
of the Splugen to be made under a false alarm; or else it 


288 


SKETCHES OP 


wa 3 a mere whim, in which his recklessness of the lives 
and comfort of his countrymen is deserving of greater 
condemnation than his ignorance; or else he has uttered 
a falsehood as gross as it is mean. The truth is, Bona¬ 
parte thought posterity could be cheated as easily as his 
contemporaries. In the dazzling noon-day of his fame, he 
could make a flattering press say what he liked, and the 
world would believe it; but the tumult and false splen¬ 
dour of his life have passed away; and men begin to 
scrutinize this demigod a little more closely; and we 
And that his word cannot be relied on in the least, when 
speaking of the character and deeds of others. He is 
willing to have no planet cross his orbit, and will allow 
no glory except as it is reflected from him. But notwith¬ 
standing his efforts to detract from the merit of this act 
of Macdonald, posterity will put it in its true light, and 
every intelligent reader of the accounts of the two pas¬ 
sages of the St. Bernard and the Splugen, will perceive at 
a f glance that Bonaparte’s achievement is mere child’s 
play beside that of Macdonald. 


XIII. 

THE RIGHI CULM. 

From the top of the Righi is seen one of the most celebrated 
views in all Switzerland. The magnificent prospect it 
commands is not owing so much to its height (it being 
only 5,700 feet above the level of the sea) as to its isolated 
position. It rises like a cone up from Lakes Lucerne and 
Zug, with a forest round its waist, and a lofty precipice 
for its forehead sloping away into green pasturages. 

I went by way of Kussnacht, in order to visit the spot 
where William Tell leaped ashore from the boat that was 
conveying him a prisoner to that place, and sent an arrow 
through the heart of Gessler. By this route it takes seven 
hours to reach the Culm of the Righi from Lucerne. I 
had started with many misgivings, and with depressed 
feelings. The companions of my travels had had enough 
of mountain climbing and of Switzerland, and here 



THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


280 


resolved to start for England. It requires no common 
resolution to break away from all one’s companions in a 
strange land, and turn one’s footsteps alone towards the 
Alps. But the Righi I was determined to see, and the 
surpassing prospect from its summit, even though I 
•waited a week to enjoy it. 

But all this was forgotten for a while as I entered the 
Hohlegasse or narrow way where Tell lay concealed, 
waiting the tyrant’s approach. I could imagine the very 
look of this bold free Swiss, as concealed among the 
trees he drew the silent arrow to its head, and sent it on 
its mission of death. The shout of a free people was in 
the twang of that bow, and the hand of Liberty herself 
sent the bolt home ; while in that manly form that went 
leaping like a chamois over the hills, was the hope of 
Switzerland. From this hallowed spot I began the toil¬ 
some ascent of the Righi with no companion but my 
guide. It was a bright summer afternoon, and stripping 1 
off my coat and handing it with my cloak to my guide, I 
nerved myself for my four hours of constant climbing. When 
about half way up, I sat down and looked back on the 
scene. There was Lucerne, from which my companions 
were just about starting for England and for home. Away 
from it into the very bosom of the mountains went the 
sweet Lake of Lucerne. Close at my feet, apparently, 
nestled the little chapel of Tell, built on the spot where 
the patriot slew the tyrant, while far away swept the 
land of the Swiss. As an American, I could not view the 
land of Tell and Winkelried, and look down on the shores 
where the “ oath of the Grutli” was taken, and Switzer¬ 
land made her first stand for freedom, without the deepest 
emotion. There slept the sweet Lake of Lucerne calm, 
and tranquil as the heavens above it. But there was a 
night when its waters were lashed into fury by an Alpine 
storm, and close beside those old rooks struggled a frail 
vessel hopelessly with the tempest. The lightning, as it 
rent the gloom, showed ever and anon its half-buried 
form amid the waves. The torn sail was shivering in the 
blast, while the roar of the billows on the rocks fell dis¬ 
tinctly on the ears of the appalled listeners, as they looked 
to each other for help in vain. A tyrant stood trembling 
on its foam-covered deck, and asked if there was no help. 
A stern proud prisoner was brought before him, and 
T 


SKETCHES OF 


290 

looked calmly out upon the frightful deep. ^ Unbind 
him ” said the tyrant—“ he alone can save us. T e 
chains were knocked off; and with the same calm, silent 
mien he siezed the helm and guided the leaping vessel 
Safely amid the rocks. The boat is ashore, but where is 
the prisoner ? Fled? aye, fled! but not for safety alone 
The* night covers him, and the tyrant has entered the 
narrow gorge on his way to his home. A sharp twang as 
of a bowstring,—a quick hissing sound through the air, 
and Gessler falls back in the arms of his attendants, witH 
an arrow in his bosom. “ Das war Tell ' s S ^hoss . ex¬ 
claimed the tyrant and died. Then rang the battle cry of 
Freedom along these shores, and from her hundred moun¬ 
tain vallies came pouring down the hardy Swiss. With 
the sword of Tell to wave them on, they brave y battled 
their wav to freedom. Blessings on thee, bold Swiss, 
thy name' is a watchword for freemen and ever shall be. 
Around it cluster the fondest memories of the patriot, and 
children love to speak it aloud. But ah, how degenerate 
has the race become! Corrupted and debased by the 
French, their freedom and their honesty have departed 

together. , . 

I turned to ascend the mountain again. Crossing a 

narrow level pasturage, I was greeted with the tinkling 
of bells, and the clear voices of shepherd boys emging m 
a shrill falsetto their wild Alpine chorusses. As I drew 
near the top, I passed a boy leaning against a rock, and 
making the air ring with the tones of his Alpine horn.— 
A few moments after a cloud of mist swept over the 
mountain, burying everything in twilight gloom, and 
chilling my blood like the sudden entrance to a damp 
vault. The sun, which a moment before shone over me 
in unclouded brightness, was snatched from my sight, and 
I stumbled on in a cloud to the house on the top. The 
wind swept by in gusts, making the mist dive and plunge 
and leap through the air like mad spirits. Now it would 
rise toward me as I looked over the precipice, like a 
smoke from some vast furnace, and then plunge again 
into the gulfs below, while the fragments writhed and 
twisted together, as if tortured into agony by some invi¬ 
sible agency. 1 had scarcely entered the house before a 
cold chill seized me that seemed impossible to shake off, 
and which the good woman of the house had the kindness 
tell me, unless I did, would end in a, fever in the 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


291 


morning. I should have brought some dry clothing with 
me, but forgot it. Fire and water, brandy and wine, 
were tried in succession, but still I kept shaking. As a 
last resort, I cleared the largest room in the house, and 
then wrapping my heavy cloak around me, began to leap 
and run and throw myself into the most difficult postures, 
to the no small wonderment of the quiet Swiss. But in 
half an hour 1 had the satisfaction of feeling the blood 
flow warmer and hotter through my veins, while the per¬ 
spiration stood in drops on my forehead. I had conquered, 
and after resting a while, went on to the verge of the 
< 2 liff which shoots its naked wall two hundred feet clear 
down to LakeZug, and endeavoured to pierce the cloud 
that had changed day into night. I knew it was not yet 
sundown, and I hoped to see its last rays falling over the 
magnificent panorama which I knew was spread out be¬ 
low me. It was all in vain : that cloud closed round the 
summit like a gloomy fate, and shut out all sight. But 
suddenly, as I was gazing, a lake of fire, miles away, 
burst on the view, one half red as a flame, and the other 
half midnight blackness, streaked with a murky red. The 
next moment it shut again, and in an instant another 
fiery surface flashed up into the awful blackness, remind¬ 
ing me more than anything I ever saw, of what a distant 
view of perdition might be. This strange spectacle was 
caused by the cloud opening before me, and revealing a 
portion of a distant lake, while the mist was still dense 
enough to refract the rays of the sun, giving that dark 
smoky red you sometimes see on the edge of a thunder¬ 
cloud, as it rolls up at sunset after a scorching day. 1 
sat up late at night reading Schiller’s William Tell, and 
then retired giving directions to be waked up early in the 
morning to see the sun rise. I had many misgivings, I 
confess, about the morning, and the verse composed once 
by an Englishman who made the ascent, and which were 
the last words uttered by my companions as I bade them 
good-bye, were constantly running in my head. 

Seven weary up*hill leagues we sped 
The setting sun to see: 

Sullen and grim he went to bed; 

Sullen and grim went we. 

Nine sleepless hours of night we passed 
The rising sun to see: 

Sullen and grim he rose again i 
Sullen and grim rose we, 



292 


SKETCHES OF 


I passed the hours sleepless enough, and when I ro™ 

to look ont in the morning, an impenetrable mist isee;med 

to wrap every thing. I JV 8 ? craw ,/^ i nn o Pass- 
again when 1 thought 1 would take another look. Pa 
inn mv hand over the glass, I found what. I had taken lor 
mfst was simply the vapour condensed on the window. 

A clear blue sky was bending overhead. 

In a few moments I was standing on the brow of the 
precipice and watching with intense interest the see 

around me. On my right stood cold and silent, white 
and awful, the whole range of the Bernese Alps. Clo 
under me, hundreds of feet down, lay the waters of the 
Zug, and yet so close to the mountain on which I stood, 
that it seemed as if I could kick a stone into it. On the 
left spread away the glorious Swiss land, sprinkled over 
with villages and lakes. Behind me was the Lucerne 
throwing its arms away into the heart of the mountains, 

while forests, rivers, towns, hills and ,a ! ies ’/ 0 ™ e f g re “ g ce ' 
ther a panorama three hundred miles in u rcumference. 
While 1 stood gazing, awe-struck, on the silent scene as 
it lay motionless in the grey light of morning, a goldeii 
streak spread along the East. Brighter and brighter it 
grew till the snow-peak nearest it caught the same fiery 
flow, and stood tipped with flame over the world of snow 
below. Suddenly another peak flashed up beside it, and 
then another and another, till for nearly a hundred miles, 
from the Sentis to the Jungfrau, the whole range of gian 
summits, stood a deep rose colour against a blue sky, 
while vast snow-fields and glaciers slept in deep shadow 
between. I stood bewildered and amazed, gazing on 
that hundred miles of rose coloured mountains. It seemed 
for the time as if the Deity had thrown the robe of bis 
glory over those gigantic forms on purpose to see how 
they became their gorgeous apparelling. Gradually tney 
paled away as the blazing fiery ball rolled into view and 
poured a flood of light on the whole scene, waking the 
landscape into sudden life and beauty. It is impossible 
to describe such a scene. The whole range ot the Bernese 
Alps before you, with its peaks, and glaciers, and Preci¬ 
pices, and snow-fields, and gorges, is a scene in itselt 
which has no parallel in the world, while the sudden 
change from ghostly white to a transparent red, fading 
gradually away into a delicate rose-colour, renders the 
spectator unable to seize any one thing which would give 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


293 


speciality to the whole. I have never felt the utter 
powerlessness of words and feebleness of all comparisons 
as in attempting to describe such a scene as spreads 
away on the vision from Mount Righi at sunrise. 

But cast your eye round the horizon now the full light 
of day is on it. To the west the country opens like a 
map, with the whole canton of Lucerne in view, while 
far away, a mere pool, glitters the Lake of Sempach, 
whose shores are one of Switzerland’s glorious battle 
fields. The eye passes on over Lucerne and the gloomy 
Pilatus, and finally leaves the western horizon on the 
Jura mountains. On the south spring up into heaven 
that whole glorious chain of the high Alps of Berne, Un- 
terwalden and Uri in one unbroken ridge of peaks and 
glaciers. On the east still stretches away the Alpine 
chain, folding in the cantons of Glarus and Appenzel, and 
the Muotta Thai, that wild valley where Suwarrow and 
Massena fought their bloody battles on ground that even 
the chamois hunter scarce dared to tread. Nearer by 
rises the mass of the Rossberg, with the whole chasm 
made by its terrible avalanche of earth, as it rolled down 
on Goldau, plainly in view. To the north peeps out 
Lake Zurich, with here and there a white roof of the 
town; and the spire of the chapel where Zwingli fell in 
battle. The towns of Arth and Zug are also visible, and 
a bare hand’s breadth of Lake Egeri, on whose shores the 
Swiss fought and gained the battle of Montgarten. The 
Black Forest hills shut in the view. It is a glorious pano¬ 
rama, changing from grand to beautiful and bnck again, 
till the heart staggers under the emotions that crowd it, 
asking in vain for utterance. But the eye will turn 
again and again to that wondrous chain of white peaks, 
resting so clear and pure and cold against the morning 
sky, and the lips will murmur— 

“ The hills, the everlasting hills. 

How peerlessly they rise. 

Like earth’s gigantic sentinels 
Discoursing in the skies.” 


m 


SKETCHES OF 


XIV. 

GOLDAU—FALL OF THE ROSSBERG. 

As I descended the Righi towards Goldau I had a clear 
and distinct view of the whole side of the Rossberg. 
This mountain, so renowned in history, is about 5,000 
feet high, with an unbroken slope reaching down to 
Goldau. The top of the mountain is composed of 
pudding stone, called by the Germans Nagelflue, or nail 
head, from the knobs on the surface. The whole strata, 
of this mountain are tilted from Lake Zug towards Goldau, 
and slope, like the roof of a house, down to the village. 
The frightful land slide, which buried the village and 
inhabitants of Goldau, was about three miles long, a 
thousand feet broad, and a hundred feet thick. The fis¬ 
sure runs up and down the mountain, and the mass slid 
away from its bed, till acquiring momentum and velocity, 
it brokw into fragments, and rolled and thundered down 
the mountain, burying the village a hundred feet deep. 
The afternoon of the catastrophe, the Rossberg gave omi¬ 
nous signs of some approaching convulsion. Ro’cks start¬ 
ed spontaneously from its bosom, and thundered dowa 
its sides ; the springs of water suddenly ceased to flow; 
birds flew screaming through the air; the pine trees of the 
forest rocked and swayed without any blast, and the 
whole surface of the mountain seemed gradually sliding 
towards the plain. A party of eleven travellers from 
Berne was on its way to the Righi at the time. 
Seven of them happened to be ahead, and the other four 
saw them enter the village of Goldau just as they observ¬ 
ed a strange commotion on the summit of the Rossberg. 
As they raised their glass to notice this more definitely, 
a shower of stones shot off from the top and whirled like 
cannon balls through the air above their heads. The next 
moment a cloud of dust filled the valley, while from its 
bosom came a wild uproar, as if nature was breaking up 
from her deep foundations. The Rossberg was on the 
march for Goldau with the strength and terror of an 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


295 


earthquake. The cloud cleared away and nothing but a 
wild waste of rocks and earth was above where the 
smiling villages of Goldau, Bussingen and Rothen stood 
before. One hundred and eleven houses, and more than 
two hundred stables and chalets had dissappeared; carry¬ 
ing down with them in their dark burial nearly five hun¬ 
dred human beings. The Lake of Lowertz was half 
filled with mud, while the immense rocks traversed the 
valley its entire width, and were hurled far up the Righi, 
mowing down the trees like cannon shot. The inhabi¬ 
tants of the neighbouring villages heard the grinding 
crushing sound, as of mountains falling together, and be¬ 
held the cloud of dust that darkened the air. Five minutes 
after and all was hushed, and the quiet rain came down as 
before, and as it had done during the day, but no longer on 
human dwellings. It fell on the grave of nearly 500 men, 
women and children, crushed and mangled, and pressed un¬ 
coffined into their mother earth. Nothing was left of the 
villages and pasturages that stood in the valley but the bell 
of the church of Goldau, which was carried a mile and 
a half from the steeple in which it hung. When the 
Lake of Lowertz, five miles off, received the torrent of 
earth into its bosom, it threw a wave seventy feet high 
clear over the island of Schwanau, and rolled up on to 
the opposite shore, bringing back, in its reflux, houses 
with their inhabitants. The friends whom their fellow" 
travellers had seen enter the village of Goldau just as the 
mountain started on its march, were never seen more. 

It was a beautiful day, as I sat and looked over this 
ehaos of rocks and earth. The Lake of Lowertz slept 
quietly under the summer sun, and the bell of Goldau 
was ringing out its merry peal in the very face of the 
Rossberg, that seemed to look down with a stern and 
savage aspect on the ruin at his feet. The deep gash in 
his forehead and his riven side still remain as Iresh as if 
made yesterday. I wandered over the ground all ridged 
and broken, just as it was at the close of that terrible 
day, with feelings of the profoundest melancholy. A few 
scattered houses had been built on the debris of rocks 
and stone, and here and there was a mockery of a garden, 
which the unconscious husbandman was endeavouring to 
till above the bones of his father. A gloom rests on all 
the valley, and Rossberg seems sole monarch here. 


296 


SKETCHES OP 


" - c< Mountains have fallen 
Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
Rocking their Alpine brethren, filling up 
The ripe green vallies with destruction’s splinters, 

Damming the rivers with a sudden dash. 

Which crushed the waters into mist, and made 
Their fountains find another channel; thus— 

Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rossberg.” 

On the island of Schwanau, in Lake Lowertz, is the 
ruin of a castle destroyed by the Swiss to revenge the 
violence done by its owner to a young woman. There 
is a tradition attached to it wild enough to form the 
ground-work of half a dozen novels. It is said that 
once a year shrieks are heard from it, and immediately 
after, the ghost of the old villain shoots by, pressed hard 
after by the spirit of the pale, wronged girl, bearing a 
torch in her hand, and screaming terrifically on his flying 
traces. For a while he escapes his frail pursuer, but at 
length she forces him into the lake, where he sinks with 
hideous groans. A wild chaos of tones and fearful yells 
rings up from the shore as the waves close over him, and 
the scene is ended. The good people need not be so 
anxious to insure the doom of the old wretch. The 
spirit of that pale girl is avenged without all this trouble, 
and the waves that close over him are more terrible than 
the waters of Lowertz. 

I walked from Goldau to Arth all alone, and amused 
myself with watching the groups of peasantry that con¬ 
stantly passed me with curious looks. It was some fete 
day, and they were all clad in their holiday dresses, and 
went smiling on, as cheerful as the bright day about 
them. They would accost me in the most pleasant man¬ 
ner, and I was constantly greeted with “ guten morgen ” 
or “ gut Tag that made me feel as if I were among 
friends. As I entered the hotel at Arth, the first thing 
that met my eye was my trunk. Its familiar look was 
as welcome as the face of a friend, and, childish as it 
may seem, I felt less solitary than when last and alone I 
entered the quiet inn. 

There is an excellent arrangement in Switzerland, by 
which one can mail his baggage as he can a letter, to 
any town on the mail route in the whole country. The 
traveller enters his different articles, takes his ticket, and 
then can go off into the Alps, and be gone for two months 



THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 297 

without the least concern. My cork sole boots, with 
which I had climbed every pass, gave out at Goldau, but 
by dint of strings, etc., I made them do till I reached 
Arth, where I was compelled to abandon the trustiest 
companions of all my travels; and left them stand¬ 
ing in the inn, with their tops leaning over one side, 
in the most dolorous, reproachful manner imaginable. 
It is curious how one becomes attached to every thing he 
carries about him in the Alps. I have known the most 
unsentimental men carry their Alpine stock across the 
Atlantic with them. 

The ride through the canton of Zug to Zurich was one 
of the pleasantest I took in Switzerland, and I verily be¬ 
lieve this is one of the most beautiful cantons in it. 
There was a neatness in the dwellings and costumes of 
the inhabitants I had not noticed before. I passed by the 
spot where Zwingli the Reformer fell, in the midst of his 
flock, transfixed by a sword ; and by the monument erect¬ 
ed to commemorate the place where Henry Von Hunen- 
berg shot an arrow from the Austrian lines into the Swiss 
camp bearing the sentence “Beware of Mortgarten.” 
The Swiss took the advice, and won the battle, and their 
descendants have reared this memento of the bold young 
patriot. Before entering Zurich, as we came in sight of 
the lake almost its entire length, I had one of the finest 
lake views I ever beheld. The beautiful shores sprinkled 
with white dwellings; the town itself, and its gardens, 
and its distant mountains, combined to render it a perfect 
picture. Zurich is a pleasant town, and reminded me 
more of home than any place on the continent. Its white 
dwellings surrounded with gardens and grounds, carried 
me back in a moment to New England. I spent the 
Sabbath here, and was surprised to find in this home of 
Zwingli—this Protestant canton—so little respect paid 
to its sanctity. Towards evening the military were re¬ 
viewed on the public square, while on one side was a 
public exhibition of rope-dancers and tumblers, and 
among the tumblers two rosy-cheeked peasant girls. 
This is a Protestant canton indeed. Protestant it may 
be, but this was no Protestant Sabbath. Yet, externally, 
Zurich is one of the pleasantest towns in Switzerland. 
The views around it are beautiful, while the rural aspect 
of the whole gives it a charm few Swiss villages possess. 
I love the land of the bold Swiss; 1 love its lakes and 


SKETCHES OP 


298 

the action of sun, south winds, and rain. These thawing 1 
the upper surface, the water trickles down through the 
crevices, increasing their width and depth till huge 
blocks, indeed immense precipices, are sawn loose by this 
slow process; and tipping over or sliding away, come 
with the might of fate itself down the precipitous sides ofi 
the mountain. A village disappears in its path in a 
breath—tre^s three feet in diameter are snapped off like 
pipe stems, and nothing but a wild ruinous waste is left? 
where it sweeps in its wrath. As I mentioned before* 
these avalanches have paths they travel regularly as deer. 
This is indicated by the shape of the mountains, and if the 
path comes straight on the site of a village, the inhabi-- 
tants build strong parapets of mason work, against which 
the avalanches may thunder and accumulate. These 
prove sometimes, however, too weak for the falling mass, 
and are borne away in its headlong sweep, adding still 
greater ruin and terror to its march. The village I saw 
crushed in the pass of the Tete Noire had such a wall 
built behind its church to protect it. For a long time it 
withstood the shock of the avalanches that fell against it* 
but one night there came one too strong to be resisted.* 
and bore away parapet, church, hamlet and all. The- 
wind caused by an avalanche in its passage is sometimes 
terrific. A blast is generated by the rapid motion of the 
headlong mass, like that created by a cannon ball in its* 
descent, which extends to some distance on both sides of 
it, and bears down trees and whirls them like feathers 
through the atmosphere. A church spire was once blown 
down by one that fell a quarter of a mile off. These 
masses of ice and snow sometimes fill up immense- 
gorges, and are bored through by the torrent, forming & 
natural bridge, over which the peasants drive their cattle 
the entire summer. The Swiss have their u sacred 
groves,” which are the forests that are left standing on a 
mountain side above a hamlet to protect it from ava- 
lanches. 

Those which fall in early summer are attended with 
Yery little danger, as they usually descend in abysses 
where no traveller ever goes. They are seen at a great 
distance, and hence have none of the appearance com¬ 
monly supposed to belong to an avalanche. You hear 
first a rumbling sound, which soon swells to a full* 
though distant thunder tone; and in turning your ey& 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


299 


snow-peaks and smiling vallies; but alas for its inhabi¬ 
tants. Their glory is in the past, and their stern integri¬ 
ty too. It seems impossible that any person should long 
retain simplicity and purity of character in the heart of 
Europe. The influence of the corrupt nations is too 
great, especially when the contact is so frequent as now. 


XV. 

AVALANCHES AND GLACIERS, THEIR 
EORMATION AND MOVEMENT. 

Before taking leave of Switzerland, it may be interesting 
to give some statistics of the Alps, though they are al¬ 
ways afterthoughts with the traveller. 1 have hitherto 
endeavoured to give the effect of the scenery one meets in 
the Alps rather than detailed descriptions of it. 

Avalanches are regarded by many as immense masses 
of snow of a somewhat globular form, which gather as 
they roll till they acquire the size of a miniature moun¬ 
tain, and are more terrible to see even, than to hear. 
This is true of many of those which fall in winter, but 
not of those which descend in spring and early summer. 
The Swiss have different names for different kinds of 
avalanches. There is the Staublawmen, or dust ava¬ 
lanche, and Grundlawinen, or ground avalanche. The 
former is the falling of loose fresh-fallen snow. Gathering 
into huge drifts upon some peak till it is detached by its own 
weight; it slides away until it reaches a precipice, when 
it commences rolling and thundering down the mountain. 
Increasing in bulk with every bound, and extending 
farther and wider, it acquires at length an impetus and 
strength that sweep down whole forests, in its passage, 
as if the trees were slender reeds; and moves across the 
entire valley, into which it lands. This, however, is not 
the most dangerous kind of avalanche, as it only buries 
people and cattle, and does not crush them; so that they 
can frequently be dug out again without serious injury. 
The Grundlawinen, on the other hand, is a more serious 
matter. It falls in the springtime, and is dislodged by 



SKETCHES OF 


300 

towards the spot whence the sound proceeds, you see 
something which appears like a small white rivulet 
pouring down the mountain side, now disappearing in 
some ravine, and now reappearing on the edge of some 
cliff, over which it runs, and falls with headlong speed 
and increased roar, till it finally lands in some deep 
abyss. You wonder at first how so small a movement 
can create so deep and startling a sound, but in that ap¬ 
parently small rivulet are rolling whole precipices of ice, 
with a rapidity and power that nothing could resist. Yet 
these terrible visitants become as familiar to the Swiss as 
our own rain-storms to us. The peasantry wait their 
regular descent in the spring as indications that winter is 
over. Those which are loosened by the human voice or 
the jingling of bells are so nicely balanced at the time, 
that it requires but the slightest change or shock in the 
atmosphere to destroy their equilibrium. 

Glaciers are the everlasting drapery of the Alps, 
clothing them in summer and winter with their robes of 
ice. They are formed by the successive thawing and 
freezing of the loose snow in spring and summer. Melt¬ 
ing in the daytime and freezing at night, the whole mass 
at length becomes crystalized;—and as the lower ex¬ 
tremities melt in summer, they gradually move down the 
mountain, carrying with them debris of rocks and stone, 
making a perfect geological cabinet of the hill it throws 
up. 

Glaciers begin at an elevation of about 8000 feet or a 
little less—above this are eternal snow fields. These 
gletschers or glaciers constitute one of the most striking 
features of Alpine scenery. Whether looked upon with 
the eye of a geologist, and the slow and mighty process 
of renovation and destruction, contemplated, working on 
from the birth to the death of Time; or whether regarded 
with the eye of a landscape painter, as they now clasp 
the breast of a bold peak in their shining embrace, and 
now stretch their icy arms far away into the mountains, 
and now plunge their glittering foreheads into the green 
valley—they are the same objects of intense interest and 
ever fresh wonder. 

As they push down the declivities, the obstructions 
they meet with, and the broken surface over which they 
pass, throw them into every variety of shape. Towers 
&re suddenly squeezed up forty or fifty feet high, and pre- 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


301 


cipices thrown out which topple over with the roar of 
thunder. Rocks or boulders that have been carried away 
from their resting-places on the bosom of a glacier protect 
the ice under them by their shadow, while the surrounding 
mass gradually melts away, leaving them standing on 
stately pedestals, huge block obelisks slowly travelling 
towards the valley. Whenever these descending masses 
enter a gorge up in the mountains, they spread out into 
it, partially filling it up, and are called ice seas. The 
Mer de Glace of Chamouny is one of these. These large 
collections of ice are traversed by immense crevices, 
reaching hundreds of feet down, and revealing that beau¬ 
tiful ultra-marine colour which the Rhone has as it leaves 
Lake Geneva. Through these fissures, streams flow in 
every direction, and collecting at the lower extremity of 
the glacier, under the roof of a huge cavern of their own 
making, flow off, a turbid torrent, into the valley. Into 
these crevices the snow frequently drifts, choking up the 
portion near the surface, thus making concealed pitfalls 
for the traveller, and sometimes even for the wary, bold 
chamois hunter. Above the glaciers, near the summit, 
one frequently meets with red snoiv. I have seen it my¬ 
self, and noticed it when I was not looking for it. The 
colour is said to be produced by a species of fungus called 
if Palmella Nivalis or Protococus,” which makes the snow 
itself its 8oil,and germinates and grows in imperceptible 
branches over the surface. The invisible threads reach¬ 
ing out in every direction give to the snow a deep crim¬ 
son blush, which, as the plant dies, changes into a dirty 
black. The number of glaciers in the Alps has been put 
by Ebel at four hundred, covering a surface of about 
three hundred and fifty square miles. But he might as 
well attempt to estimate the number and weight of all 
the avalanches that fall, for these glaciers are of all sizes, 
from a few rods to miles, and in every variety of shape 
and position. The one around the Finster-Aar-horn 
contains a hundred and twenty square miles. The tra¬ 
veller sees, as at Grindelwald and Chamouni, only the 
branches, the mere arms of these mighty forms. Scien¬ 
tific men differ very much as to the relative thickness 
of glaciers, though the average probably not more 
than seventy or eighty feet. The Mer de Glace, where 
it pitches into the vale of Chamouni, is a hundred 
and eighty feet thick. Some of these glaciers are of a 


302 


SKETCHES OF 


pure white, and shine in the noonday sun with dazzling 
splendour, but the greater part of them are covered with 
the debris of the mountains, giving them a dirty hue, 
wholly unlike the appearance one imagine they present, 
who has never seen them. The impression they make on 
the mind of the beholder, however, can never be effaced. 
The marks of power, of terrific struggles they carry about 
them, fill the mind with emotions of grandeur almost 
equal to the solitary avalanche and its lonely voice of 
thunder. They have a voice of their own, too, called by 
the mountaineers brullen (growlings), caused by the 
rending of the solid mass when the south-east wind 
breathes upon it. The lower portion of the Alps is full 
of sound and motion : even after you leave the tinkling 
of bells, the music of the horn and the bleating of goats, 
there is the roar of the torrent, the shock of the avalanche, 
and the grinding, crushing sound of the mighty glacier. 
But when you ascend above these, all is still and silent 
as the sepulchre. Eternal sabbath reigns around the 
peaks, and solitude deeper than the heart of the forest, 
embraces the subdued and humbled adventurer, while the 
sudden flight of a pheasant from amid the snow, or the 
slow and lordly sweep of the Lamergeyer, in his circles 
upward, startle the feelings into greater intensity. 


XVI. 

PASTURAGES, CHALETS, AND ALPINE 

PASSES. 

In passing through the higher Alps nothing has afforded 
me more pleasure than the green pasturages which, here 
and there, dot the savage landscape. Sometimes they 
have burst unexpectedly on me, as the fierce Alpine storm- 
cloud rent above them, revealing for a moment a face 
of gentleness and beauty, and then veiling it again in 
impenetrable gloom ; and now greeting me from the pre¬ 
cipitous side of some difficulty pass ; yet always awakening 
the same emotions. The bold features of Alpine scenery and 
the strong contrasts presented by the quiet meadow spot 



THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


303 


and the cold white glaciers that lay their icy hands on its 
green bosom—the secure little hamlet, surrounded by the 
most savage and awful forms of nature—must make an 
ineffaceable impresion on the heart of a Swiss mountaineer, 
and prevent, I should think, his ever being an emigrant. 
I am inclined to believe very few in proportion to the 
whole population ever do leave the region of the Alps. I 
remember finding a returned emigrant on the summit of 
the Righi. He had trinkets of various kinds to sell, made 
of wood and chamois horn, &c. I do not know how it 
happened, but I accidentally learned that he had once 
been to America, and was curious to learn what had 
brought him back. He liked the new country, he said, 
very well, but he liked the Alps better. “ Oh,” said he, 
4i you have no Alps in America!” He could not forget 
the mountains and glaciers and pasturage of his native 
land, and I could not blame him. And yet the poetry of a 
Swiss mountaineer’s life is all in appearance and none in 
reality. So with the chalets and pasturages; they are 
picturesque things in the landscape, and there their beauty 
ends. The life of a Swiss herdman is anything but one 
of refinement. The sound of his horn at sunrise, ringing 
through the sweet valley as he drives his flocks to pas¬ 
ture ; and the song of the u Ranz des vaches ” as the herds 
slowly wind along the mountain paths, are delightful to 
the ear. So is the tinkling of sounding bells at evening, 
one of the pleasantest sounds that was wont to greet me 
in my wanderings in the Alps. But the herdsman thinks 
of none of these things. To gather together nearly a 
hundred cows twice a day, and milk them, and make the 
butter and cheese, and do all the outdoor work belonging 
to such a dairy, make his life one of constant toil. The 
chalet too, which is simply a Western log hut, built inex¬ 
actly the same style, and loaded down with stone on the 
roof to keep it from being blown away by the Alpine 
blast,—though adding much to the scenery, is any thing 
but a comfortable home. A table and bench constitute 
the furniture—some loose straw above the bed, while 
through the crevices on every side the wind and rain enter 
at their leisure. To complete the discomfort, the cattle 
are allowed to tread the ground around it into a barn¬ 
yard. There are exceptions to this rule, but this is the 
common chalet which meets one at every turn on a Swiss 
pasturage. They are built with no reference to each 


SKETCHES OF 


304 

other, but are scattered around on the slopes as if sieved 
down from above, and alighted where they did by the 
merest chance. The number that will be scattered ar0 ^ n “ 
in a single valley is almost incredible. As I descended 
into Grindelwald the thick sprinkling of these little low 
dark-looking chalets over the distant slopes produced a 
most singular effect. Their number seemed literally 
legion. There are ten thousand in the Simmenthal alone. 

In Switzerland Alps signifies mountain pasturage, and 
is used in that sense. These Alps, or mountain pas¬ 
turages, are sometimes private property, and sometimes 
the property of the village or commune. When owned 
by the latter, every inhabitant is allowed to pasture a 
certain number of cattle for so many days upon it. I 
saw, near Grindelwald, one of those govern'inent pas¬ 
turages, and it was literally covered with cows. The 
valley furnishes the first pasturage in the spring, and as 
the summer advances, and the higher pasturages become 
free of snow, the herds are driven up to them. Owners 
of large numbers of cattle will have a chalet on every 
pasturage for their cowherd. 

In speaking of the customs of the Swiss in this respect, 
Latrobe says: u They stay on the first pasturages till 
about the 10th or 12th of June, when the cattle are 
driven to the middle range of pasturages. That portion 
of the herd intended for a summer campaign on the 
highest Alps remain here till the beginning of July, and 
in the fourth of that month, generally ascend to them; 
return to the middle range of pastures about seven or 
eight weeks afterwards, spend there about fourteen days, 
or three weeks, to eat the after-grass ; and finally return 
into the valleys about the 10th or 12th of October, where 
they remain, in the vicinity of the villages, till driven by 
the snow and tempests of winter into the stables. 

“ That portion of the cattle, on the other hand, whichis 
not destined to pass the summer on the higher Alps, and 
are necessary for the supply of the village with milk and 
butter, descend from the middle pastures, on the fourth of 
July, into the valley, and consume the grass upon the 
pasturage belonging to the commune, till the winter 
drives them under shelter. The very highest Alpine 
pasturages are never occupied more than three or four 
weeks.” 

I have already, in another place, spoken of the custom 


TIIE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


305 


of driving herds to the most inaccessible pasturages in 
midsummer. Herds are thus driven across the Mer de 
Glace, in July, to the pasturages beyond, though more or 
less cattle are lost in the crevices of the glaciers at every 
passage. 

Murray says that the best cheese is made “ upon pas¬ 
tures 3000 feet above the level of the sea, in the vales of 
Simmen, and Saauen, and Emmenthal. The best cows 
there yield, in summer, between twenty and forty pounds 
of milk daily, and each cow produces, by the end of the 
season of four months, on an average, two hundred weight 
of cheese.” I have seen herds feeding six and seven 
thousand feet above the level of the sea. 

1 ought to add, perhaps, in justice to the Swiss, that 
some of the chalets I spoke of as exceptions to those I 
described as being uncomfortable and dirty, are as neat 
and tidy as a New England farm-house. The white 
table-cloth and clean though rude furniture, and fresh 
butter and milk, and pleasant face of the hospitable 
.mistress, make the traveller’s heart leap within him, as, 
weary and cold, he crosses the threshold. 

I have spoken of several of the Alpine passes in detail, 
and refer to them now merely to state that there are fifty 
in Switzerland alone. Those roads constructed for car¬ 
riages are not allowed to rise more than a certain number 
of feet to a mile. Distance seems not to have entered 
into the calculations of the engineers who built those 
monuments of human skill — carriage roads over the 
Alps. They were after a certain grade, and they ob¬ 
tained it, though by contortions and serpentine windings 
that seem almost endless. Thus the Simplon averages 
nowhere more than one inch elevation to a foot, and, 
indeed, not quite that. Thirty thousand men were em¬ 
ployed on this road six years. There are 611 bridges in 
less than forty miles, ten galleries, and twenty houses of 
refuge, while the average width of the road is over 
twenty-five feet. The cost of the whole was about 
£240,000. The Splugen presents almost as striking 
features as the Simplon. From these facts some idea 
may be gathered of the stupendous work it must be to 
carry a carriage road over the Alps. 

In the winter they are all blocked up, and none but 
the bold foot traveller ventures on their track. The 
u 


SKETCIIES OF 


\ 


30G 

driving snow-storms and falling avalanches render them 
impassable to carriages and perilous ever^ to the a ^ J 
tomed mountaineer. I believe that the mail is ™ 
over the Simplon, during the winter, by a man.either on 
foot or with a mule. I think I have been told that he 
makes the passage twice a week bringing to-the* heap 
on the top the only news that reach it of the world 
below. For eight months in the year the inhabitants o 
the higher Alps might as well be out of the world, for 
all knowledge they have of its doings and ways. 


XVII. 

A FAREWELL TO SWITZERLAND—BASLE. 

The first view one gets of the Rhine in leaving Switzer- 
land from the east is on his way from Zurich to Basle. 
Here, also, he takes his farewell look of the Alps. From 
the top of the Botzberg the whole range of the Bernese 
Alps rises on the view. Amid the scenes in which he 
has moved since he left their presence, the traveller 
almost forgot their existence, and as they here rise again 
on his vision, they bring back a world of associations on 
his heart. There they stand leaning against the distant 
sky, like the forms of friends he has left for ever. Such 
were my feelings as I sat down by the road-side, under 
as bright a sky as ever bent over the vineyards of Italy, 
and looked off upon those bold peaks which had become 
to me objects of affection. A few days only had ela P 8e “ 
since I was amid their terror and their beauty. I had 
seen the moonbeams glancing on their glaciers at mid¬ 
night, and heard the music of their torrents lifting up 
their voices from the awful abysses. I had seen t e 
avalanche bound from their precipices, and rush, smoK- 
ine and thundering, into the gulfs below —and been 
wrapt in their storms and clouds. I had toiled and 
struggled through their snow drifts and stood 
on their green pasturages, while the music of he** 8 ’ tlie 
bleating of flocks, and the clear tones of the Alp-horn 
made it seem like a dream-land to me. A mere dwan 



THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


307 


in comparison, I had moved and mnsed amid those fer¬ 
ritic forms. Now mellowed and subdued by distance, 
the vast, white, irregular mass, lay like a monster 
dreaming in the blue mist. Clouds resting below the 
summit slept here and there along the range, and all was 
silent and beautiful. I love nature always, but especi¬ 
ally in these her grandeur and nobler aspects. The Alps 
had lain along the horizon of my imagination from child¬ 
hood up. The desire of years had at length been ful¬ 
filled, and I had wandered amid the avalanches and 
glaciers and snow-fields and cottages of the Oberland, 
and now I was taking my last look. It was with feel¬ 
ings of profound melancholy I turned away from St. 
Peters and the Duomo of Milan, feeling I should see 
their magnificent proportions no more. Bat it was with, 
still sadder feelings I gazed my farewell on the glorious 
Alps. 

On this route, within half a mile of Bragg, is a lunatic 
asylum, once the Abbey of Koenigsfelden, (King’s field,) 
•which the guide-book informs you was founded in 1310, 
hy Empress Elizabeth, and Agnes, Queen of Hungary, on 
the spot where the Emperor Albert, the husband of the 
former and father of the latter, was assassinated. Leav¬ 
ing his suit on the opposite bank, he had crossed the 
river Reuss at this point, with only the four conspirators 
accompanying him. The principle one, John of Swabia, 
was the nephew of Albert, and was incited to this deed 
from being kept out of his paternal inheritance by his 
ancle. He struck first, and sent his lance through the 
Emperor’s throat. Bolm then pierced him through and 
through with his sword, while Walter von Eschenbach 
cleaved his skull in twain with a felling stroke. Wart, 
the fourth conspirator, took no part in the murder, and 
yet, by a singular providence, was the only one that was 
ever caught and executed for the deed. The others 
escaped, although the King’s attendants were in sight. 
Indeed the latter were so alarmed they took to flight, 
leaving their master to die alone, sustained and cheered 
only by a poor peasant girl, who held the royal dying head 
upon her bosom. 

ft Alone she sate : from hill and wood low sunk the mournful sun; 

Past gushed the fount of noble blood; treason its worst had done. 

With her long hair she vainly pressed the wounds to staunch their tide: 

Unknown, on that meek humble breast imperial Albert died.” 



308 


SKETCHES OF 


On the friends and families of these murderers the 
children of Albert wreaked a most bloody vengeance. 
The remotest relative was hunted down and slam, and 
every friend offered up as a victim to revenge, till one 
thousand is supposed to have fallen. Queen Agnes was 
accustomed to witness the executions, and seemed 1 ac¬ 
tuated by the spirit of a fiend while the hurnd 
was going on. On one occasion she saw sixty three, 
one after another slain, and in the midst of the „ blo ° 7 
spectacle exclaimed, “ Now I bathe 

convent of Koenigsfelden was endowed Wlth * be p ^^ e 
cated property of these murdered men, and here sue 
ended her days. But her religious seclusion, prayers and 
almsgiving were powerless to wipe the blood from he 
conschmce. The 'ghosts of her murdered and innocent 
victims rose up before her guilty spirit, and frightened 
■peace from her bosom. Revenge had been gratified, but 
she forgot that after it has been glutted with victims, it 
turns round and gnaws at the heart which gave it birth. 
When she came to die, and the vision of that terrible and 
just tribunal that awaited her passed before her trembling 
spirit, she sent for the priest to give her absolution. Wo¬ 
man,” he replied, “ God is not to be served with bloody 
hands, nor by the slaughter of innocent persons, nor by 
convents built with the plunder of widows and orphans, 

_but by mercy and forgiveness of injuries.” bwitzer- 

land is full of these wild tales. They meet you at every 
turn; and you often start to be told you are standing on 

the grave of a murderer. ,. ,, 

Basle is the last town in Switzerland standing on the 
Rhine at the head of navigation. It contains a little over 
21,000 inhabitants, and is well worth a longer stay than 
the thousands of travellers who yearly pass through it ever 
<»ive it. It was once one of the strictest of the bwiss 
cities in its sumptuary laws. Every person on the Sabbath, 
who went to church, was compelled to dress in black; 
no carriage could enter the the town after ten at night, 
and the luxury of a footman was forbidden. A set of 
officers called Uhzichterherrn decided the number ot 
dishes and the wines to be used at a dinner party, and 
also the cut and quality of all the clothes worn. Until 
fifty years ago, the time-pieces of this town were an 
hour in advance of all others in Europe. Tradition 
states that this curious custom had its origin m the 


THE ALrS AND THE RHINE. 


30# 


deliverance of the place once from a band of conspirators 
by the town clock striking one instead of twelve. But 
the Swiss have a tradition to establish every custom. 
There is a curious head attached to the clock tower 
standing on the bridge which connects the two towns. 
The movement of the pendulum causes a long tongue to 
protrude, and the eyes to roll about—“ making faces,” it 
is said, “ at Little Basle on the opposite side of the river.’ 

Since the Reformation Basle has been the principal 
seat of Methodism in Switzerland. Formerly the citizens 
exhibited their piety in odd mottoes and doggrels placed 
over their doors in the public streets. These, of course, 
no longer remain, and the people are anything but re¬ 
ligious. Two of these strange mottoes we give from the 
guide-book as a specimen of the pious Methodists of that 
time: 

ie Auf Gott ich meine Hoffnung ban 
Und wohne in der Alten Sau.” 

Jn God my hope of grace I big. 

And dwell within the Ancient Pig. 

“ Wacht auf ihr Menschen und that Buss 
Ich heiss zum goldenen Rinderfuss.” 

Wake and repent your sins with grief, 

I’m called the golden Shin of Beef. 

This was a queer mode of publishing to the traveller 
one’s religious opinions, but it shows to what ridiculous 
extremes fanaticism will carry a man. To the credit of 
the place I will say, however, that even now a carriage 
arriving at the gates of the town during church time on 
the Sabbath is compelled to wait there till service is 
over. 

Here one begins to think of the Rhine, “the glorious 
Rhine.” It goes rushing and foaming through Basle as 
if in haste to reach the vine-clad shores of Germany. 
The traveller, as he sees its waters darting onward, 
imbibes a portion of their anxiety, and is in haste to be 
borne along on their bosom to the shore below, so rich in 
associations and so marked in the history of man. 


310 


SKETCHES OF 


XVIII. 

STRASBOURG—THE RHINE—FRANKFORT. 

One is constantly shown choice relics in passing through 
Switzerland, as well as in passing over Italy. Some, 
doubtless, are genuine, but which are so is the trouble. 
Thus, at Lucerne, in the public archives, I was shown the 
very sword William Tell was accustomed to swing before 
him in battle, and the very cross-bow from which he 
hurled the bolt into the tyrant’s bosom. Both, however, 
are apocryphal. I forgot to mention, by the way, that 
these old Swiss cross-bows are not our Indian bows, but 
what school-boys call cross-guns. The bow, frequently 
made of steel, is fastened to a stock, and the arrow is 
launched along a groove. The bows of many of these 
are so stiff that it was with difficulty I could make them 
spring at all with my utmost strength. I might as well 
have pulled on a bar of iron. The stiffest of them even 
the strong-limbed mountaineer could not span with his 
unaided strength, and was compelled to have cog wheels 
and a small crank attached to the stock, by winding 
which he was enabled to spring the bow. He thus ac¬ 
cumulated tremendous force on the arrow, and when it 
was dismissed it wpnt with the speed and power of a 
bullet. At Basle there is a large collection of relics, 
made by a private gentleman, who has sunk his fortune 
in it. Among other things are Bonaparte’s robe worked 
by Josephine, in which he was crowned at Milan, and a 
neat rose-wood dressing case of the Empress, containing 
fifty secret drawers. 

But not to stop here, we will away down the Rhine. 
The river is here shallow and bad to navigate, so I took 
the railroad to Strasbourg, the lofty spire of whose 
cathedral rises to view long before the traveller reaches 
the town. This cathedral or minster is one of the finest/ 
Gothic buildings in Europe, and has the loftiest spire in 
the world, it being four hundred and seventy-four feet 
above the pavement. It is formed of stone and yet open 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


311 


like frost-work, and looks from below like a delicate cast 
iron frame. Yet there it stands and has stood, with the 
wind whistling through its open-work for centuries. 
Begun about the time of the Crusades by Erwin of Stein- 
bach, it was continued by his son, and afterwards by his 
daughter, and after that by others, and was finally 
finished 424 years after its foundation. I am not going to 
describe it; but just stand outside, by the west end, and 
cast your eye over the noble face it presents. Over the 
solid part of the wall is thrown a graceful net-work of 
arcades and pillars, formed of stone, yet so delicately cut 
that it seems a casting fastened on the surface. In the 
centre is a magnificent circular window, like a huge eye, 
only it is fifty feet across, while the body of the building 
itself towers away 230 feet above you, or nearly as high 
as Trinity church, steeple and all, will be when finished. 
And over all is this beautiful netting of stone. When 
Trinity church is completed, clap another just like it, 
spire and all, on the top of its spire, and you have some 
conception of the manner the Strasbourg Minster lifts its 
head into the heavens. Among other things in the in¬ 
terior is the famous clock which, till lately, has for a 
long time remained silent, because no mechanist could be 
found of sufficient skill to arrange its elaborate interior. 
It is about the size of a large organ, and tells not only 
the time of the day, but the changes of the seasons— 
exhibits the different phases of the moon—the com¬ 
plicated movements of the planets, bringing about in 
their appointed time the eclipses of the sun and moon, 
besides playing several tunes and performing various 
marches by way of pastime. It is a time-keeper, astro¬ 
nomer, almanack, mathematician, and musician at the 
same time. Every hour a procession appears on its face 
marching round to the sound of music, with some strik¬ 
ing figure in the foreground. We waited to notice one 
performance, and the chief personage that came out to 
do us honour was old Father Time, with his scythe over 
his shoulder, and his head bowed down in grief, looking 
as if he were striking his last hour. Here lies Oberlin, 
and about a mile and a half distant, at Walbach, is his 
house and library, standing just as he left them. 

Here for the “first time I noticed the storks sitting 
quietly on their nests on the tops of the lofty chimnies, 
or stepping with their long legs and outstretched necks 


312 


SKETCHES OF 


around on their perilous promenade. There is one street 
in this town called Brand Strasse (Fire Street), from the 
fact, that in 1348 a huge bonfire was made where it runs, 
to burn the Hebrews, and 2,000 were consumed, for 
having, as it was declared, poisoned the wells and foun¬ 
tains of the town. Ah! almost all Europe has been one 
■wide Brand Strasse to this unfortunate people. 

Strasbourg is the great market for pates de foies gras, 
made, as it is known, of the livers of geese. These poor 
• creatures are shut up in coops so narrow they cannot 
turn round in them, and then stuffed twice a day with 
Indian corn, to enlarge their livers, which have been 
known to swell till they reached the enormous weight of 
two pounds and a half. Garlick steeped in water is 
given them to increase their appetites. This invention 
is worthy of the French nation, where cooks are great 
as nobles. 

From this place to Mayence, down the Rhine, there is 
nothing of interest except the old city of Worms, im¬ 
mortal for the part it played in the Reformation. It is 
now half desolate, but I looked upon it with the pro- 
foundest emotions. Luther rose before me with that 
determined brow and strange, awful eye of his, before 
which the boldest glance went down. I seemed to be¬ 
hold him as he approached the thronged city. Every step 
tells on the fate of a world, and on a single will of that 
single man rests the whole Reformation. But he is firm 
as truth itself, and in the regular beatings of that mighty 
heart, and the unfaltering step of that fearless form, the 
nations read their destiny. The Rhine is lined with 
battlefields, and mighty chieftains lie along its banks; 
but there never was the march of an army on its shores, 
not even when Bonaparte trod there with his strong 
legions, so sublime and awful as the approach of that 
single man to Worms. The fate of a nation hung on the 
tread of one—that of the world on the other. Crowns 
and thrones were carried by the former—the freedom of 
mankind by the latter. What is the headlong valour of 
Bonaparte on the bridge of Lodi, the terrible charge of 
Macdonald at Wagram, or Ney at Waterloo, compared 
to the steady courage of this fearless man, placing him- 
Belf single-handed against kings and princes, and facing 
down the whole visible church of God on earth, with its 
prisons and torture and death placed before him. But 


THE ALTS AND THE RHINE. 313 

there was a mightier power at work within him than 
human will or human courage—the upstaying and uplift¬ 
ing spirit of God bearing on the heart with its sweet 
promise, and nerving it with its divine strength, till it 
could throb as calmly in the earthquake as in the sun¬ 
shine. Still his was a bold spirit, daring all and more 
than man dare do. 

The Rhine here is a miserable stream enough, flowing 
amid low marshy islands, and over a flat country, so that 
you seem to be moving through a swamp rather than 
down the most beautiful river of Europe. The boat will 
now be entangled in a perfect crowd of these mud islands 
till there seems no way of escape, and now, caught in a 
current, go dashing straight on to another ; and just when 
the crash is expected, and you are so near you could 
easily leap ashore, it shoots away like an arrow, and floats 
on the broad lake-like bosom of the stream. Nothing* 
can be more stupid than the descent of the Rhine to 
Mayence. 

Here I crossed the river and took cars for Frankfort-on~ 
the-Maine. Here, also, I first noticed those huge rafts of 
timber which are brought from the mountains of Germany 
and floated down to Holland. One was moving down 
towards the bridge, four hundred feet long, and nearly 
three hundred wide, sprinkled over with the cabins of the 
navigators, who, with their families, amounted to be¬ 
tween two and three hundred persons. I supposed the 
spectacle of such immense masses of floating timber was 
one of the peculiar features of our western world, and I 
did not expect such a wild and frontier scene here on the 
Rhine. 

There are three classes of cars on the railroad to 
Frankfort. The first is fitted up for the delicate tastes of 
noble blood, though free to all. The second is better than 
any railroad carriage I ever saw at home, and the third 
very passable. Taking the second as more becoming my 
rank, I sped off for Frankfort. Of this free town I will 
say only that the belt of shrubbery and flowers going en¬ 
tirely round it, with carriage drives and promenades be¬ 
tween, looks like a beautiful wreath encircling it, and oc¬ 
cupying as it does the place of the old line of forts, is a 
sweet emblem of the change that is yet to come over the 
cities of the world from the peaceful influence of the 
gospel. The two things that interested us most were;, 


SKETCHES OE 


314 

the house in which Goethe was born, showing by its fine 
exterior that poverty was not the inheritance of one poet 
at least,—and the Jews’ street, at one end of which stands 
the palace of the Rothschilds. The Jews here, as every 
where, are old clothes men, and the street is black with 
garments hanging before the dwellings to tempt the pur¬ 
chaser. The Rothschilds have built their palace at the 
end of the street, but facing one of the most fashionable 
streets of the town. Thus they stand with one foot 
among the Jews and the other among Christians. I was 
struck with one little incident illustrating the tenacity 
with which a Hebrew clings to his despised people. The 
mother of the Rothschilds still lives among the old clothes 
in the midst of her kindred, and steadily refuses to dwell 
with her children in their magnificent palace. Like Ruth 
she says to her people, “ Where thou goest I will go, and 
thy God shall be my God.” I love this strong affection 
for her persecuted race, choosing, as it does, shame and 
disgrace with them, rather than honour and riches with 
the world. Even here, in this enlightened town, until 
eleven years ago, there was an edict in force restricting 
the number of marriages among the Hebrews to thirteen 
per year. 


XIX. 

A DAY IN WIESBADEN. 

Wiesbaden is the Saratoga of Germany and the chief 
town in the Duchy of Nassau. The Duke is the King of 
this little . province containing 355,715 inhabitants, of 
whom a little over half are Protestants, 5,845 Jews, and 
the rest Catholics. This small duchy is filled with 
Brunnens, or bubbling springs; but before I give a de¬ 
scription of them, let me sketch a day in Wiesbaden. At 
five o’clock in the morning, the servant, in obedience to 
my orders, knocked at my door, and with a bright sun 
just rising over the Taunus mountains to greet me, I 
threaded my way to the hot springs, a short distance 
from the centre of the village. A crowd had arrived be- 



TIIE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


315 


fore me, and were scattered around over the open area or 
passing up and down the promenades, carrying a glass of 
the steaming water in their hands, waving it backwards 
and forwards in the morning air, and blowing upon the 
surface to cool it for drinking. This water is so hot it 
cannot be drank for some time after it is dipped up, and 
the vessel containing it cannot be grasped for a single 
moment in the hand. A handle, therefore, is attached to 
all the vessels, in which each invalid receives his portion 
of the scalding fluid. I stood for a long time convulsed 
with laughter at the scene that opened before me as I ap¬ 
proached this spring,notwithstanding the sobering effects 
of the early morning air. Now an old man tottered away 
from the steaming spring, bowing over his glass, which 
he held with trembling hand close to his face, and 
blowing with the most imperturbable gravity aad do¬ 
lorous countenance on the scalding fluid. Close behind 
him shot along a peppery Frenchman, puffing away at his 
drink, and swingiug it backwards and forwards with 
such velocity and abruptness, that a portion of the hot 
water at length spilled over on his hand, when he dropped 
the vessel as if he had been bitten by a snake, and, with 
a dozen sacres , stood scowling over the broken fragments 
that lay scattered at his feet. Old and young women 
were walking along the promenades utterly absorbed in 
their cup of boiling water, which it required the nicest 
balancing to keep from spilling over. This intense at¬ 
tention of so many people to the single object of keeping 
their cups right end up, and yet swing them as far and 
rapid as possible in order to cool the water, was irre¬ 
sistibly comical. Almost every man’s character could be 
discerned in the way he carried his cup, and the success 
which attended his operations. Your quiet lazy man sat 
down on a bench, put his vessel beside him, and crossing 
ills legs, waited with the most composed mien the sure 
operation of the laws of nature to cool his dose, while 
the ardent impatient personage kept shaking and blowing 
his tumbler, and sipping every now and then, to the no 
slight burning of his lips. 

After having watched for a while this to me novel 
spectacle, I stepped up to the spring and received from a 
3 'oung girl my portion of this boiling broth, and com¬ 
menced my promenade, presenting, probably, to some 



SKETCHES OP 


31G 

other traveller, as ridiculous a figure as those who had 

just excited my mirth had to me. . 

The taste of this water, when partially cooled, is pre¬ 
cisely like chicken broth. Says a humorous English 
traveller, of this spring, (Sir Francis Head,) “ If I were 
to say that, while drinking it, one hears in one’s ears the 
cackling of bees, and that one sees feathers flying before 
one’s eyes, I should certainly greatly exaggerate ; but 
when I declare that it exactly resembles very hot chicken 
broth, I only say what Dr. Grenville said, and what, in 
fact, every body says, and must say, respecting it, and 
certainly I do wonder why the common people should be 
at the inconvenience of making bad soup, when they can 
get much better from nature’s great stock-pot, the Koch- 
brunnen of Wiesbaden. At all periods of the year, sum¬ 
mer and winter, the temperature of this broth remains 
the same; and when one reflects that it has been bub¬ 
bling out of the ground, and boiling over, in the very 
same state, certainly from the time of the Romans, and 
probably from the time of the flood, it is really astonishing 
what a most wonderful apparatus there must exist below, 
what an inexhaustible stock of provisions to ensure such 
an everlasting supply of broth always formed of the 
same eight or ten ingredients, always salted to exactly 
the same degree, and always served up at exactly the 
same heat. One would think that some of the particles 
in the recipe would be exhausted : in short, to speak 
metaphorically, that the chickens "would at last be boiled 
to rags, or that the fire would go out for want of coals ; 
but the oftener one reflects on this sort of subjects, the 
oftener is the old-fashioned observation forced upon the 
mind, that let a man go where he will. Omnipotence is 
never from his view.” 

This water, like that of Saragota, is good for every 
thing: for those too fat and those to lean, for those too 
hot and those too cold, for all ages and conditions and 
sexes. After having swallowed a sufficient quantity of 
broth, and what is better still, a good breakfast, I wan¬ 
dered two miles, through shaded walks, from the Kur 
Saal to the picturesque ruins of Sonnenberg Castle. Lying 
down under its shady trees, and away from the noise of 
the bustling little village, I forgot for a while, Wiesbaden, 
Kochbrunnen, chicken broth, and all. 

This Kur Sail is a magnificent hotel, built by the Duke, 


TIIE ALF8 AND THE RHINE, 317 

• 

and capable of seating several hundred at dinner. The 
main saloon is 130 feet long, 60 wide, and 50 feet high. 
The price for dinner is the very reasonable sum of some 
seventeen or eighteen pence. Back of this building is an 
open area with seats in it, where hundreds, after dinner, 
sit and drink coffee; and farther on, a passable pond, 
beautiful shrubbery, and countless walks. I hardly know 
a pleasanter spot to spend a week or two in than Wies¬ 
baden, were it not for the gambling that is constantly 
practised. In the public rooms of the Kur Sail are 
roulette tables and other apparatus for gambling, which 
after dinner, and especially in the evening, are surrounded 
with persons of both sexes, most of whom stake more or 
less money. Directly opposite to me at dinner, sat a 
young man whose countenance instantly attracted my 
attention. He was very pale and thin, while his cold 
blue eye, high cheek bones, and almost marble whiteness 
and hardness of features, together with a sullen, morose 
aspect, made me shrink from him as from some deadly 
thing. Added to all this, when he rose from the table, 
I saw he had an ugly limp, which made him seem more 
unnatural and monster-like than before. 

Wandering soon after through the rooms, seeing what 
was to be seen, I came to a roulette table around which 
were gathered geutlemen and ladies of all nations and 
ages, some of them staking small sums apparently for 
mere amusement. Just then, this sullen cadaverous look¬ 
ing younar man came limping up, and deposited a roll of 
twenty Napoleans or about £16. A single turn of the 
wheel and it was lost. He quietly drew forth another 
roll, which was also quickly lost. Without the least agi¬ 
tation or apparent excitement he thus continued to draw 
forth one roll after another till ten of them or about £160 
were gone. He then ns quietly, and without saying a 
single word, limped away. He had not spoken or changed 
a muscle the whole time, and manifested no more anxiety 
or regret than if he had lost only so many pennies. 
tf There,” said I to myself, as he sauntered away, “ goes 
a professed gambler, and he has all the qualities for a suc¬ 
cessful one. Perfectly cool and self-possessed under the 
most provoking reverses, he does not get angry and rave 
at fickle perverse fortune, but takes it all as a matter of 
business.” I then kaew, for the first time, why I felt 
fluch an antipathy towards him. A gambler carries his 


SKETCHES OF 


SIS 

repulsive soul in his face, in his eye, nay, almost in his- 
very gait. He makes a chilling atmosphere around him 1 
that repels every one that approaches him. Gambling 
seems to metamorphose a man more than any other crime 
except murder. 

But let us away from this contaminating influence, and 
forth into God’s beautiful world—into the forest, and 
beauty and bloom of nature, where one can breathe free 
again, and feel the soothing and balmy influence of the 
summer wind as it creeps over the mountain ridges. The 
sun is stooping to the western world, hasting, as it were, 
to my own beloved land, and the dark forests of the 
Taunus seem to wave an invitation to their cool shades. 

Taking a guide with me, I mounted a donkey and 
started for “ Die Platte,” or the duke’s hunting seat, 
four miles distant, on the very summit of the Taunus. 
For a long while we trotted along together, when, all at 
once, a flock of deer burst from the thicket, and bounded 
across our path. Going a little way into the wood, they 
stopped, and allowed me to urge my donkey to within; 
a few rods of them. Indeed they seemed almost as tame 
as sheep. I asked my guide what would be the penalty 
if he should shoot one of those deer. “ Three years’ im¬ 
prisonment,” he replied. “ In my country,” said I r 
“ there are plenty of deer, and you can shoot one down 
wherever you find it, and have it after it is killed.” He 
looked at me a moment, in astonishment, and then simply 
said, “ That must be a strange country.” A strange 
country indeed to him, who was going through a wide 
unbroken forest, and yet could not even take a wild bird’s 
nest without paying a fine of five florins. At length we 
reached the duke’s hunting seat, a white cubic building, 
standing alone and naked on the very summit of the hill. 
Two huge bronze stags stand at the entrance, while im¬ 
mense antlers are nailed up in every part of the hall, and 
along the staircase, with a paper under each, telling that 
it was shot by the duke, and the date of the remarkable 
achievement. I could not but smile at this little piece of 
ostentation, as I had just seen how difficult it must be to 
kill one of these deer. I had rode on horseback (or, 
rather, donkeyback) to within pistol shot of four as fine 
fellows as ever tossed their antlers through the forest, 
and then was compelled to halloo to frighten them away. 
I am afraid the duke would hardly show as many 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


319 


trophies if compelled to hunt his game in our primeval 
forests. The chief room of this building is circular, and 
has a row of antlers going entirely around it, halfway up 
the lofty ceiling; while every piece of furniture in it— 
chairs, sofas, stools, and all—are made of deer’ horns in 
their natural state. I suppose they must have been 
steamed and bent into the very convenient shapes they 
certainly present. The cushions are all made of tanned 
deer-skins, adorned with hunting scenes, forest land¬ 
scapes, &c. From the top of this hunting chateau I saw 
the glorious Rhine, flowing, in a waving line, through the 
landscape, while cultivated fields and vineyards, and 
forest-covered hills, and old castles, and towers, and cot¬ 
tages spread away on the excited vision in all the ir¬ 
regular harmony of nature ; and the glorious orb of day 
threw its farewell light over the whole, as it dropped to 
its repose over distant France. I turned back to Wise- 
baden, through the deepening shades of the forest, greeted 
ever and anon, by the fitting form of a noble deer, as he 
bounded away to his evening shelter. 

At night the Kur Saal is thronged with persons of both 
sexes;—and, as I strolled through it, I came again upon 
a gambling table, around which were sitting gentlemen 
and ladies of every age and nation. English girls were 
teasing their te papas” for a few sovereigns to stake on 
the turning of a card, and old men were watching the 
changes of the game with all the eagerness of youth. 
One lady, in particular, attracted my attention. She was 
from Belgium, and her whole appearance indicated a 
person from the upper ranks of society. To an elegant 
form she added a complexion of incomparable whiteness, 
which contrasted beautifully with her rich auburn 
tresses that flowed in ample ringlets around her neck. 
Clad in simple white, and adorned with a profusion of 
jewels, she took her seat by the table, while her husband 
stood behind her chair; and, with her delicate white 
hand on a pile of money before her, entered at once into 
the excitement of the game. As she sat, and with her 
small rake drew to her, or pushed from her, the money 
she won or lost, I gazed on her with feelings with which 
I had never before contemplated a woman. I did not 
think it was possible for an elegant and well-dressed 
lady to fill me with feelings of such utter disgust. Her 
very beauty became ugliness, and her auburn tresses 


SKETCHES OF 


320 

looked more unbecoming than the elfin locks of a 
sorceress. Her appearance and her occupation presented 
such an utter contrast, that she seemed infinitely uglier 
to me than the cold-blooded, cadaverous looking gambler 
I had seen lose his money a few hours before. While 1 
was mentally comparing them, in he came, limping to¬ 
wards the table. I was half tempted to peep round and 
see if he had not a cloven foot. With the same marble¬ 
like features and forbidding aspect he approached and 
laid down a roll of twenty Napoleons. He won, and 
putting down another, won again; and thus he con¬ 
tinued, winning one after another, till he had got back 
the ten rolls he had lost before, and two in addition. 
Then, without waiting for fortune to turn against him, 
he walked away, not having spoken a word. 

Turning to a bath-house, I threw myself into the 
steaming water for an hour, and then retired to my 
couch. These baths are so large one can swim around 
in them, and are arranged in a row, with only a high 
partition between them, so that you can hear every splash 
and groan of your neighbour in the next apartment. . On 
one side of me was an old man, apparently, whose kicks, 
at long intervals, told me he was yet alive. Some two 
or three women were on the other side, whose laughter 
and rapid German kept up a constant Babel, while the 
steam came rolling up over where I lay like the smoke 
from a coal-pit. I do not know what idea these Germans 
have of delicacy, but this hearing your neighbours kicking 
and splashing around you, while the whole building is 
open the entire length overhead, would not be tolerated 
in my own country. 

It must be remembered that these gambling “hells” 
are not in out-of-the-way places, but meet you as if 
they would be placed in the public rooms of the hotels at 
Saratoga, and were patronized by the fashionables of 
both sexes from New York city. Methinks it is time 
another Luther had arisen to sweep away this chaff of 
Germany. 


THE ALTS AND THE RHINE. 


321 


XX. 


SCHWALBACH AND SCHLANGENBAD. 

There are other mineral waters in Nassau besides those 
of Wiesbaden, and differing from them entirely in taste 
and temperature. Schwalbach contains several springs 
very much like the Congress, Pavilion and Iodine springs 
of Saratoga. One called the Weinbrunnen, from the 
fancied resemblance of water to wine, reminds one very 
much of the sparkling water of the Pavilion Spring. The 
Stahlbrunnen and the Pauline in the same place, differ 
from each other only in the different proportions in which 
iron and carbonic acid gas are found in them. It is but 
a day’s ride from this to the famous Nieder Selters, the 
spring from which the well known and almost univer¬ 
sally circulated Seltzer water is obtained. Sir Francis 
Head’s description of this spring and the mode of obtain¬ 
ing the water is better than any I could give. Says he: 
“ On approaching a large circular shed covered with a 
slated roof, supported by posts but open on all sides, I 
found the single brunnen or well from which this highly* 
celebrated water is forwarded to almost every quarter of 
the globe—to India, the West Indies, the Mediterranean, 
Paris, London, and to almost every city in Germany. 
The hole, which was about five feet square, was bounded 
by a framework of four strong beams mortised together, 
and the bottom of the shed being boarded, it resembled 
very much, both in shape and dimensions, one of the 
hatches in the deck of a ship. A small crane with three 
arms, to each of which there was suspended a square iron 
crate or basket a little smaller than the brunnen, stood 
about ten feet off; and while peasant girls, with a stone 
bottle (holding three pints) dangling on every finger of 
each hand, were rapidly filling two crates, whi<jji con¬ 
tained seventy bottles, a man turned the third by a winch, 
until it hung immediately over the brunnen, into which it 
then rapidly descended. The air in these seventy bottler 
x 




SKETCHES OF 


322 

being immediately displaced by the water, a great 
bubbling of course ensued, but in twenty seconds this 
having subsided, the crate was raised; and while seventy 
more bottles descended from another arm of the crane, a 
fresh set of girls curiously carried off these full bottles, 
one on each finger of each hand, ranging them in long 
rows upon a large table or dresser, also beneath the shea. 
No sooner were they there than two men, with surprising 
activity, put a cork into each; while two drummers, with 

a long stick in each of their hands, hammering them down, 

appeared as if they were playing upon musical glasses. 
Another set of young women now instantly carried them, 
off, four and five in each hand, to men who, with sharp 
knives, sliced off the projecting part of the cork: and this 
operation being over, the poor jaded bottles were de¬ 
livered over to women, each of whom actually covered 
three thousand of them a day with white leather, which 
they firmly bound with pack-thread round the corks; and 
then, without placing the bottles on the ground, they de¬ 
livered them over to a man seated beside them, who, 
without any apology, dipped each of their noses into 
boiling hot rosin, and. before they had recovered from this 
unexpected operation, the Duke of Nassau’s seal 
stamped upon them by another man, when then they 
were hurried, sixteen and twenty at a time, by girls, to 
magazines, where they peacefully remained ready lor 

exportation. „ 

“ Having followed a set of bottles from the brunnen to 

the store where I left them resting from their labours, I 
strolled to another part of the establishment, where w^ere 
empty bottles calmly waiting for their turn to be filled. 
I here counted twenty-five bins of bottles, each four yards 
broad, six yards deep, and eight feet high. A number of 
young girls were carrying thirty-four of them at a time to 
an immense reservoir, which was kept constantly full, 
by a large fountain pipe, of beautiful, clear fresh water.” 

Speaking of the number of bottles that strew the road 
in every direction, and make the very place look as if it 
had been once made of bottles and overthrown in a thun¬ 
der storm, leaving its wreck on the ground, he says: 
“ The children really looked as if they were made of 
bottles : some wore a pyramid of them in baskets on their 
heads;—some of them were laden with them, hanging 
<jver their shoulders, before and behind;—some carried 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


323 


them strapped round their middle, all their hands full; 
and the little urchins that could scarcely walk, were ad¬ 
vancing, each hugging in its arms one single bottle! Ia 
fact, at Nieder Selters “ an infant” means a being totally 
i nable to carry a bottle ; puberty and manhood are proved 
by bottles; a strong man brags of the number he can 
carry, and superannuation means being no longer able in 
this world to bear-^bottles. 

“ The road to the brunnen is actually strewed with 
fragments, and so are the ditches; and when the reader 
is informed that, besides all he has so patiently heard, 
bottles are not only expended, filled and exported, but 
actually made at Nieder Selters, he must admit that no 
writer can do justice to that place unless every line of 
his description contains at least once the word— bottle. 
The moralists of Nieder Selters preach on bottles. Life, 
they say, is a sound bottle, and death a cracked one. 
Thoughtless men are empty bottles; drunken men are 
leaky ones; and a man highly educated, fit to appear ia 
any country and any society, is of course, a bottle corked, 
rosined, and stamped with the seal of the Duke of 
Nassau.” 

This humorous and graphic description will not be 
thought much exaggerated when we remember that 
nearly a million and a half of bottles are annually carried 
out of that small inland German town, to say nothing of 
another million and a half broken there. In the year 1832 
there were exported from that spring 1,295,183 bottles. 
If they were all quart bottles, it would amount to over 
a thousand barrels of mineral water, which annually 
goes down somebodies’ throats. This valuable spring 
was originally bought by the ancestor of the Duke for a 
single butt of wine, and it now yields a nett profit over 
£ 5,200 per annum. 

Schlangenbad, or the Serpent’s bath, is another of the 
brunnens of Nassau. Schlangenbad is in a secluded spot, 
and takes its name from the quantity of snakes that live 
about it, swimming around in the spring and crawling 
through the houses with the utmost liberty. The waters 
are celebrated for their effect on the skin, reducing it al¬ 
most to marble whiteness. The most inveterate wrinkles 
and the roughest skin become smooth and white under 
the wonderful effects of this water. Acting as a sort of 
corrosive, it literally scours a man white, and then soaks 





324 


SKETCHES OF 


him soft and smooth. Says Francis Head, I one day 
hannened to overhear a fat Frenchman say to his friend, 
S hp had been lying in one of these baths a half an 
hour • ‘ Monsieur , dans ces bains ou dement afisotoew* 
aZnreul de soi mSfne.' ‘Sir in these bath*b 
absolutely becomes enamoured of himself. J’C) great i_ 
the effect of this water on the skin, that it is bottled and 
sent to the most distant parts of Europe as a ^smetic 
The Germans have some mysterious origin to e y 
thing, and what the Italians refer to the Madonna, they 
attribute to some indefinite mysterious agency. This 
goring they say, was discovered by a sick heifer. H 
ing been wasting away a long time, till her bone, seemed 
actually to be pushing through her skin, and she wa. 
given iip by the herdsman to die; she all at once disap- 
peered and*wa, gone for several weeks No one thought 
of her. as it was supposed she was dead, but one day stie 
unexpectedly returned, a sleek, fat, bright-eyed and 
nimble heifer. Every evening, however, she disappeared, 
which excited the curiosity of the herdsman so that he 
at length followed her, when to his surprise he saw her 
approach this spring, then unknown, from> which having 
drank, she quietly returned. Not long after, a beautiful 
young lady began to waste away precisely like the heifer, 
and all medicines and nursing were in vam, and she wan 

given over to die. , _ , 

The herdsman who had seen the wonderful cure per¬ 
formed on one of his herd being told of her sickness, 
went to her and besought her to try the spring. Like a 
sensible man, he thought what was good for the heifer 
was good for the woman. She consented to try the 
remedy, and in a few weeks was one of the freshest, 
fattest, plumpest young women in all the country round. 
From that moment, of course, the fame of the spring was 
secured, and it has gone on increasing in reputation, till 
mow the secluded spot is visited by persons from every 
part of Europe. 

The duchy of Nassau is a beautiful portion of Germany, 
and if the Duke would only abrogate, like a sensible 
man, some of his foolish tyrannical feudal laws, and be¬ 
come a father to his subjects, it would be a delightful 
spot every way. But the petty prince of every petty 
province seems to think he is more like a king the more 
despotic he behaves. 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


325 


XXI. 

MAYENCE.—THE RHINE. 

Mayence or Mainz lies at the upper termination of the 
fine scenery of the Rhine. From this to Coblenz, nearly 
sixty miles, this river is lined with towns, and convents, 
and castles, as rich in association as the ruins around 
Rome. 

Mayence has its sights for the traveller, among which 
are the cathedral, the ruins of an old Roman structure, a 
museum of paintings, several monuments, &c., which I 
will pass over. There are two things worth recording of 
Mayence. It was here the famous Hanseatic League 
(the result of the Rhenish League) was formed by a con¬ 
federation of cities. It was the first effectual blow aimed 
against unjust restrictions on commerce. Robber chief¬ 
tains had lined the Rhine from Cologne to Mayence with 
castles, which frowned down on the river that washed 
their foundations; and levied tribute on every passing 
vessel. In the middle ages there were thirty-two “ toll- 
gates” of these bold highwaymen on the river. Now the 
only chieftain on the Rhine who is still allowed to 
hold and exercise his feudal right, is the Duke of Nassau. 
Under this strong confederation, the haughty castles one 
after another went down, and there is now scarcely a 
ruin that does not bear the mark of the Emperor Rudolph’s 
stroke Commerce was freed from the heavy exactions 
that weighed it down, and sailed with spreading canvass 
and fearless prow under the gloomy shadows of the 
castles that had once been its terror and destroyer. 

Byron looked on these castles with the eye of a poet, 
and felt vastly more sympathy for the robber chieftains 
that lived by violence, than the peaceful traders whose 
bodies were often left floating down the Rhine. It is 
well for the world that those who formed the Hanseatic 
League were not poets of the Lara, Childe Harold, and 
Manfred school. Seeing very little romance in having 
their peaceful inhabitants fired upon by robbers who 


326 


SKETCHES OF 


•were fortunate enough to live in castles, they wisely con¬ 
cluded to put a stop to it Had they not taken this prac¬ 
tical view of the matter, Byron would probably not have 
been allowed to poetise so much at his leisure and with 
such freedom of expression, as he did when he sung of 
the “ chiefless castles breathing stern farewells.” 

*' And there they stand as stands a lofty mind. 

Worn but unstooping to the baser crowd. 

All tenantless save to the crannying wind. 

Or holding dark communion with the cloud.' 

There was a day when they were young and proud. 

Banners on high and battles passed below; 

But they who fought are in a bloody shroud. 

And those which waved are shredless dust ere now. 

And the black battlements shall bear no future blow. 

Beneath those battlements, within those walls. 

Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls. 

Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 

What want these outlaw conquerors should have. 

But history’s purchased page to call them great? 

A wider space an ornamented grave. 

Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave. 

In their baronial feuds and single fields 
What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ? 

And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields. 

With emblems well devised by amorous pride. 

Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide; 

But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on. 

Keen contest and destruction near allied. 

And many a tower for some fair mischief won. 

Saw the discoloured Rhine, beneath its ruin run. 

But thou, exulting and abounding river ! 

Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
Through banks whose beauty would endure forever 
Could man but leave thy bright creations so, 

Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
With the sharp scythe of conflict,—then to see 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
Earth proved like Heaven; and to seem such to me. 

Even now what wants thy stream ?—that it should Lethe be, 

A thousand battles have assailed thy banks. 

But these and half their fame have passed away. 

And Slaughter heaped on high his welt’ring ranks. 

Their very graves are gone, and what are they ? 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


327 


Thy tide washed down the blood of yesterday: 

And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glossed with its dancing light the sunny ray. 

But o’er the blackened memory’s blighting dream 
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem.” 


Thus mused the haughty misanthropic hard along the 
Rhine;—and these few sentences, by the conflicting senti¬ 
ments that pervade them, exhibit the perfect chaos of 
principle and feeling amid which he struggled with more 
desperation than wisdom. One moment he expresses 
regret that those old feudal chiefs have passed away, 
declaring, on the faith of a bard, that they were as good 
as their destroyers, and the next moment pouring his 
note of lamentation over the evils of war. 

The other notable event in the history of Mayence is— 
the first printing press was established here. 

There is a monument here to Gensfleisch (goose Jlesli), 
called Gutemberg, a native of the place, who was the 
inventor of moveable types. This first printing office, 
occupied by him between the years 1443 and 1450, is still 
standing. One could moralize over it an hour. From 
the first slow arrangement of those moveable types to the 
present diffusion of printed matter, what a long stride! 
He who could hear the first crippled movement of that 
miniature press, the only one whose faint sound rose from 
this round earth; and then catch the din and thunder of 
the “ten thousand times ten thousand” steam presses 
that are shaking the very continents on which they rest- 
“with their fierce action; would see an onward step in the 
progress of the race more prophetic of change than in the 
conquests of the Caesars. The quiet, thoughtful Gens¬ 
fleisch little knew what an earthquake he was generating 
as he slowly distributed those few types. If the sudden 
light which rushed on the world had burst on his vision, 
and the shaking of empires and sound of armies, set in 
motion by the diffusion of thoughts and truths which the 
press had scattered on its lightning-like pinions, met 
his ear, he would have been alarmed at his labour, and 
trembled as he held the first printed leaf in his hand. 
That printed page was a richer token to the desponding 
world than the olive leaf which the dove bore back to the 
Ark from the subsiding deluge. Men, as they roam by 
the Rhine, talk of old Schomberg and Blucher and Ney, 


SKETCHES OP 


328 

and heroes of martial renown, but John Gensfleisch and 
Martin Luther are the two mightiest men that lie along 
its shores. The armies that struggled here are still, and 
their renowned battle-fields have returned again to the 
hand of the husbandman; but the struggle commenced by 
these men has not yet reached its height, and the armies 
they marshalled not yet counted their numbers, or fought 
their greatest battle. 

Well, brave Gutemberg, (to descend from great things 
to small) I here, on thy own moveable types, lay my 
offering to thee, and salute thee “ greater than a king.” 

A bridge of boats, one thousand six hundred and sixty-six 
feet long, here crosses the Rhine to Cassel, the railroad 
depot for Frankfort and Wiesbaden. It is strongly 
fortified, and commands the bridge in a manner that 
•would make the passage of it by a hostile army, like the 
passage of the bridge of Lodi. The boats which form it 
lie with heads up stream, secured to the bed of the river 
by strong fastenings; and covered with planks. Sections 
here and there swing back to admit the free passage of 
boats, while nearly half of the whole line is compelled to 
retire before one of those immense rafts of timber which 
are floated down the Rhine. 


XXII. 

THE CASTELLATED RHINE. 

“The Rhine! the Rhine!” which has been the shout 
of glad armies, as its silver sheen flashed on their eyes as 
they came over the surrounding heights, is interesting 
more from its association than its scenery. The changes 
that have come over the world are illustrated more 
strikingly here than even in Rome. The old convent 
where the jolly friar revelled, is converted into a manu¬ 
factory—the steamboat is rushing past the nodding castles 
of feudal chiefs—the modern town straggling through the 
ruins of once lordly cities, and all the motion and excite¬ 
ment of the nineteenth century, over the unburied 
corpses of the first fourteen centuries. There is probably 



THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


323 


no river on our globe more rich in associations than the 
Rhine. Navigable for over six hundred miles, through 
the very heart of Europe, its dominion has been battled 
for for nineteen centuries. From the time the Roman 
legions trod its shores, and shouted victory in good classic 
Latin, or retired before the fierce charge of barbaric war¬ 
riors, to the middle ages, when feudal chiefs reared their 
castles here, and performed deeds of daring and chivalry 
that dimly live in old traditions; it has been the field of 
great exploits, and witnessed the most important event 
of European history. It has been no less the scene of 
stirring events in modern times. The French Revolution, 
after it had reduced France to chaos, moved heavily to¬ 
wards the Rhine. On its banks was the first great 
struggle between the young and strong Democracy, and 
the haughty, but no longer vigorous Feudalism. Here 
kingship first trembled for its crown and throne, and 
Europe gathered in haste to save its tottering monarchies. 
On its shores France stood and shouted to the nations 
beyond, sending over the startled waters the cry, “All 
men are born free and equal,” till the murmur of the 
people answered it. The Rhine has seen the armies of 
the Caesars along its banks—the castles of feudal chiefs 
flinging their shadows along its placid bosom—the print¬ 
ing-press rise in its majesty beside it, and the stem Luther 
tread along its margin, muttering words that shook the 
world. It has also borne Bonaparte and his strong 
legions on, yet amid it all—amid crumbling empires, and 
through the smoke of battle—undisturbed by the violence 
and change that have ploughed up its banks, lined them 
with kingdoms, and strewed them with their ruins—it 
has ever rolled, the same quiet current, to the sea. Its 
scenery is also beautiful, but not so much when viewed 
from its surface, as when seen from the different points of 
prospect furnished by the heights around. From the old 
castles on the shores and the ridges around, the landscape 
has almost endless variations, yet is always beautiful. 

Byron has combined all the striking features of the 
Rhine in a single verse, yet coloured some of them a 
little too highly. 

“ The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom. 

Of coming ripeness, the white city’s sheen. 

The rolling stream, the precipice’s gloom. 

The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between. 




SKETCHES OF 



The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been 
In mockery of man’s art; and these withal 
A race of faces happy as the scene. 

Whose fertile bounties here extend to all. 

Still springing o’er thy banks, though empires near them fall.” 

Almost every castle has, with its real history, some 
wild tradition connected; which, though it may or may 
not be true, adds great interest to the mysterious ruin.— 
In looking over the guide-book, I was struck with the 
number of “ outline sketches” for magazine tales, thrilling^ 
novels, &c., furnished on almost every page. In a few 
sentences will be told the fate of some old feudal lord, or 
his beautiful daughter, of whose private history one 
would gladly know more. Thus at Braesemberg are the 
ruins of two castles, of one of which, the Bromserhof, 
we are told that “tradition says, that one of these 
knights, Bonser of Budesheim, on repairing to Palestine- 
signalised himself by destroying a dragon, which was 
the terror of the Christian army. No sooner had he 
accomplished it, than he was taken prisoner by the 
Saracens ; and while languishing in captivity, he made a 
vow, that if ever he returned to his castle of Budesheim,, 
he would devote his only daughter, Giesla, to the church. 
He arrived at length, a pilgrim, at his castle, and was 
met by his daughter, now grown into a lovely woman.— 
Gisela loved, and was beloved by a young knight from a 
neighbouring castle, and she heard with consternation, 
her father’s vow. Her tears and entreaties could not 
change his purpose. He threatened her with his curse if 
she did not obey; and in the midst of a violent storm,, 
she precipitated herself from the tower of the castle into 
the Bhine below. The fishermen found her corpse the 
next day in the river, by the tower of Hatto, and the 
boatmen and vintagers at this day fancy they sometimes 
see the pale form of Gisela hovering about the ruined 
tower, and hear her voice mingling its lamentations 
with the mournful whistlings of the wind.” 1 leave to 
some one else the filling up this outline. There is tho 
scene of the first interview of this selfish old Jephtha 
with his daughter—the wild meetings of the two lovers 
•—the pleadings with the father—the rash purposes, and 
the final leap from the castle tower, of the beautiful 
Gisela all fair property for the weaver of romances—a 
sort of schedule already made out for him.' 


TIIE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


331 


This tower of Hatto, at the base of which was found 
the form of Gisela, is some distance farther down the 
river. In descending to it one passes the vineyards of 
the famed Rudesheim wine, and the white castle of St. 
Roch. The Bishop of Hatto has been immortalized by 
Southey, in his “Traditions of Bishop Hatto,” commenc¬ 
ing with the imaginative line 

“ The summer and autumn had been so wet.” 

Here begins the “ Rhine gorge,” which furnishes the 
most beautiful scenery on the river. The banks of the 
stream become more precipitous and rocky, affording 
secure frontiers for the feudal chiefs that fortified them¬ 
selves upon them. Ruined castles—gaping towers— 
dilapidated fortresses, begin to crowd with almost start¬ 
ling rapidity on the beholder. As the boat flies along on 
the swift current of the stream he has scarcely time to 
read the history and traditions of one, before another 
claims his attention. Placed in every variety of position, 
and presenting memorials of almost every century, they 
keep the imagination in constant activity. The castles 
of Falkenburg perched on its rocky eminence; Reichen- 
stein and Rheinstein, a little lower down, are grouped 
together in one coup d'ceil while the falling turrets of 
Sonneck rush to meet you from below, and the castle of 
Heimberg frowns over the village at its fee4'. Next 
comes old Furstenberg with its round tower and crum¬ 
bling walls, and then Nottingen, and after it the massive 
fragments of Stahleck castle, looking gloomily down 
from the heights of Bacharach. While 1 was thus cast¬ 
ing my eyes, first on one side, and then the other, of the 
river, as these, to me new and strange objects, came and 
■went on my vision, suddenly from out the centre of the 
river rose the castle of Pfalz. We had scarcely passed 
it before the battlements of Gutenfels appeared, and soon 
after the rock-founded castle of Schaenberg. Tradition 
says that it received the name of Beautiful Hill from 
seven beautiful daughters of one of the old chieftains. 
Though beloved and sought for by all the young knights 
far and near, they turned a deaf ear to every suitor, and 
finally, for their hardheartedness, were turned into seven 
rocks, which still remain, a solemn warning to all beau¬ 
tiful and heartless coquettes to remotest time. At length. 


332 


SKETCHES OE 


just above St. Goar, the black and naked precipice of 
Lurleiberg rose out of the water on the left, frowning in 
savage silence over the river. Just before we came op¬ 
posite this perpendicular rock, the boat entered a rapid, 
formed by the immense rocks in the bed of the stream, 
and began to shoot downward like an arrow to an im¬ 
mense whirlpool in front of the Lurleiberg. The river 
here striking the rocks, and dashing back towards the 
opposite side, forms a whirlpool, called by the inhabitants 
the Gewirr; into the furious eddy of which our little 
steamboat dashed without fear. She careened a little 
one side as she passed along the slope of the \V irbel, 
probably tipped over by the beautiful, though evil-nnn - 
ed, water nymph-the Circe of the Rhine—which used 
to beguile poor ignorant boatmen by her ravishing ^ oice 
into the boiling eddies, where she deliberately drowned 
them. Unable to charm the steam-engine, which goes 
snorting in the most unpoetical and daring manner 
through all the meshes the weaves with her whirlpool, 
she revenges herself by putting her ivory shoulder against 
the keel of the boat as it passes, and exerting all her 
strength gives it a slight tip over, just to show that she 
still occupies her realm. 

I was struck here with one of those exhibitions of the 
love of the picturesque and beautiful which meets the 
traveller at almost every step on the Continent. There 
is a gro'cto under the Lurleiberg where the echo ot a 
bugle blast or pistol shot is said to be repeated fifteen 
times. As we approached it, I heard first the explosion 
of a gun, and then the strains of a bugle. I did not know 
at first what it meant, and was much amused when I 
was told, on inquiring, that a man was kept stationed 
there, whose sole business was to fire guns and blow his 
bugle for the benefit of travellers. This making a busi¬ 
ness of getting up echoes looks odd to an American. A 
man thus stationed on the Hudson to rouse echoes for 
every boat that passed, would have a great many jokes 
cracked at his expense. I should have been better 
pleased with this arrangement, however, had I derived 
any benefit from it. Between the crushing sound of the 
water, as it swept in swift circles around the boat, and 
the churning of the steam-engine, I did not get even a 
single echo. I heard only the explosion of the gun, and 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


333 


the fitful, uncertain strains of the bugle—the echoes the 
steamboat and whirlpool had all to themselves. 

We had scarcely passed the base of this precipice be¬ 
fore the ruins of the fortress of Kheinfels emerged into 
view. This is the largest ruin on the river, and wit¬ 
nessed bloody work in olden times, as its stern lord 
levied duties on every traveller up the Rhine. It was 
the impregnable character of this fortification which 
helped to bring about the Hanseatic League. It was 
blown up by the revolutionary army of France, and has 
remained a ruin ever since. Next comes the Thurmberg, 
or castle of the mouse, a ruin in a more perfect state of 
preservation than any other on the Rhine. It wants only 
the wood-work to render it entire. A little lower down 
rises the old convent of Bornhofen, and the twin castles of 
Sternberg and Liebenstein, presenting a most singular, 
yet charming, feature in the landscape. Still farther 
down, and lo ! the noble castle of Marksburg, perched on 
the top of a cone-like rock, looking silently down on the 
little village of Branbach, at the base, burst on my sight. 
This old castle stands just as it did in the middle ages, 
with all its secret, narrow passages, winding staircases, 
dungeons, and instruments of torture, preserved through 
the slow lapse of centuries. The castle of Lahneck 
comes next, and last of all, before reaching Coblentz, the 
fine old castle of Stalzenfels. It stands on a rock in the 
most picturesque position imaginable. It had lain in 
ruins since the French destroyed it, nearly two hundred 
years ago ; but the town of Coblentz having presented it 
to the Crown Prince of Prussia, he is slowly repairing it 
after the ancient model. He devotes an annual sum to 
the repairs, and it already shows what a beautiful struc¬ 
ture it must have been originally. The gift on the part 
of Coblentz was no great affair, as they had already 
offered it for eleven pounds, and could find nobody to 
buy it at that price. The old castles on the Rhine follow 
the laws of trade—the price always corresponds to the 
demand. But here the castle-market is glutted, and 
hence the sales are light. 

One cannot easily imagine the effect of these turreted 
ruins, suddenly bursting on one at every turn of the 
river. The whole distance from Mayence to Coblentz is 
less than sixty miles, and yet one passes all these old 
castles in sailing over it. But these castles are not all 


334 


SKETCHES OF 


that charms the beholder. There are ruined convents 
and churches—smiling villages, sweet vineyards—bare 
precipices and garden-like shores, all coming and going 
like the objects in a moving diorama, keeping up a suc¬ 
cession of surprises that prevents one effectually from 
calling up the associations of any one particular scene. 


XXIII. 

THE RHINE FROM COBLENTZ TO 
COLOGNE. 

Coblentz is one of the most picturesque towns we 
have ever seen. Its position on the Rhine seems chosen 
on purpose for effect. One of the most interesting ob¬ 
jects in it is the rock and fortress of Ehrenbreitstein, 
which commands a glorious view of the junction of the 
Rhine and Mosel, and which, from its impregnable 
position, is called the Gibraltar of the Rhine. It will 
hold a garrison of 14,000 men, while the magazines will 
contain provisions sufficient to maintain eight thousand 
men for ten years. The escarped rocks on three sides 
would repel almost any assault, and the fortress can 
easily sustain the glorious name it gained in the seven¬ 
teenth century, when assailed in vain by the French 
armies. The name signifies “ honour’s broadstone.” 
There is a convent of Jesuits in the town, with such 
ample wine cellars that a stage coach could drive around 
in them, and they have held nearly a half a million of 
bottles of wine. In the public square is a fountain, 
erected as a monument, by the French, in 1812, on which 
was chiselled an inscription, to commemorate their in¬ 
vasion of Russia. A few months after, the fragments of 
the Grand Army were driven over the Rhine. Over the 
fallen host the Russians had marched in triumph, and 
pressing fast on the flying traces of Bonaparte, entered 
this town on their march for Paris. The Russian com¬ 
mander, seeing this monument, instead of having it 
destroyed, caused to be cut under the French inscription, 
<( Vu et approuve par nous, commandant Russe, de la ville 



THE ALPS AND TIIE RHINE. 


335 


Coblence, Janvier 1 cr f 1814. This is rather a hard hit on 
the French, and shows that St. Priest had more contempt 
than hate in his composition. Here, too, sleeps the brave 
and noble Marceau, who fell in the hotly fought battle of 
Altenkirchen. Byron expressed the feelings of both 
friends and foes when he sung 


“ Brief, brave and glorious was his young career— 

His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes; 

And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit’s bright repose. 

For he was Freedom’s champion, one of those. 

The few in number, who had not o’erstept 
The character to chastise which she bestows 
On such as wield her weapons; he had kept 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o’er him wept.’' 

We had scarcely shoved away from the wharf at 
Coblentz before castles, which seemed to have dropped 
down the river during our stop, began to rise along the 
shores. The Crane , built nearly three hundred years ago, 
and just below it the Watch Tower of older date, round 
below and eight-sided above, present a most picturesque 
appearance. Farther down rises the castle of Rheineck, 
with the castellated building beside it looking like the 
residence of some old feudal chief, in the heyday of his 
power. Farther down still, after the Ahr has poured its 
-silver stream into the Rhine, appear the black precipices 
of Erpeler Lei y seven hundred feet high. At first view 
this immense basaltic rock seems perfectly inaccessible, 
but the vintager has converted it into a vineyard. In 
the crevices, all along the face of the precipice, are 
placed baskets filled with earth, in which are planted 
vines, that creep up and cling to the rock, covering it 
with verdure and fruit. Opposite the village of Unkel is 
another basaltic rock, rising in columns from the water. 
The Rhine raves past it as if conscious that the long, dull 
sweep of the Lowlands was below it, and it must foam 
and rave while it could. 

The Tower of Roland comes next, and after it the 
ruins of seven castles, on seven different mountains, the 
remains of the castles of the Archbishops of Cologne. A 
little farther on, and lo, the Rhine goes in one broad 
sweep of twenty miles to Cologne, sparkling under the 
summer sky, and rejoicing in the wealth of villages and 


336 


SKETCHES OP 


vineyards, and cultivated fields along its shores. The 
view here is glorious, and I was tempted to echo the 
shout of the Prussian army, u The Rhine! The Rhine!” 
Up the river the rocks shut in the prospect, as if en¬ 
deavouring to restrain the Rhine, and look savage and 
gloomy upon the liberated waters that leap away with¬ 
out farther restraint, for the open country below. Unlike 
the Hudson, which goes in one broad steady sweep from 
Albany to New York, the Rhine is tortuous and un¬ 
steady ; now spreading out into a lake filled with 
islands, now smoothly laving the richly cultivated banks, 
and now dashing on the rocks that push into its channel, 
till its vexed waters boil in frenzy—and now gliding 
arrow-like past some old castle, that seems watching its 
movements. The natural scenery along its course is 
greatly inferior to that of the Hudson, but the accessories 
of vineyards, and villages, and convents, and churches, 
and castles, and towers, and the associations around 
them, all make the passage up or down it one of the 
most interesting in the world, in the beauty and variety 
it presents. 

The seven hills, “ Siebengebirge ,” I mentioned above, 
are the lower terminations of the grand scenery on the 
Rhine. These “ seven hills” (there are more than seven), 
crowned with their ruined castles, form a scene that can 
scarcely be surpassed. They have all been thrown 
up by some volcano, that lived, and worked, and died 
here, before man had a written history ; and rise in mag¬ 
nificent proportions along the banks of the rushing 
river. The Lowenberg, 1414 feet high; the Wolkenberg, 
1067; the Drachenfels (dragon’s rock), 1056; the Oel- 
berg, 1473; the Niederstromberg, 1066 ; and the Strom- 
berg, 1053 feet in height, surmounted by ruined battle¬ 
ments, towers, &c., are a glorious brotherhood, and 
worthy of the Rhine, on which they look. I will not 
give the traditions connected with many of these, nor 
add the particular descriptions and aspects of each. The 
impression they make on one he carries with him through 
life. Especially does an American, whose eye has 
roamed over primeval forests, broad rivers, and lofty 
mountains; left just as the hand of nature formed them, 
gaze with curious feelings on this blending of precipices, 
and castles, and mountains, and ruins, together. Natnre 
looks old in such connection—a sort of bond-slave to man, 


THE ALPS AND TIIE RHINE. 337 

bereft of her pride and freedom, and robbed of her fresh¬ 
ness and life. 

Drachenfels rises almost prependicularly to the view 
from the river shore, with a cap of ruins on its lofty head. 
Byron has immortalized this rock in language so sweet 
that I risk the complaint of quoting too much, and give 
the three following beautiful verses. 

<e The castled crag of Drachenfels 
Frown o’er the wide and winding Rhine. 

Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
Between the banks which bear the vine. 

And hills all rich with blossom’d trees. 

And fields which promise corn and wine. 

And scattered cities crowning these. 

Whose far white walls along them shine. 

Have strewed a scene which I could see 
With double joy wert thou with me. 

And peasant girls with deep blue eyes. 

And hands which offer early flowers. 

Walk smiling o’er this paradise; 

Above, the frequent feudal towers 
Through green leaves lift their walls of grey. 

And many a rock which steeply towers. 

And noble arch in proud decay, 

Book o’er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 

But one thing want these banks of Rhine,— 

Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine! 

The river nobly foams and flows. 

The charm of this enchanted ground. 

And all its thousand turns disclose 
Some fresher beauty varying round. 

The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 
Through life to dwell delighted here ; 

Nor could on earth a spot be found 

I To nature and to me so dear. 

Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine.” 

Passing Bonn, with its University, Cathedral, &c., 
rapidly as steam and the downward current together 
I could bear us, we were soon under the white walls of 
j Cologne. Here I lost sight of two fellow travellers that 
had added much to my pleasure down the Rhine. It had 
so happened that we wished to stop at the same places, 

Y 


338 


SKETCIIE3 OF 


and had thus kept company from Frankfort to Cologne, 
Thev were two ladies that had attracted my attention 
-when they got on board at Mayence. One was an elderly 

lady, and the other young and beautiful. , 

Sitting near them soon after we started, the elderly 
lady addressed some inquiry to me respecting the boat, 
■which I answered in the fewest words possible, tor 1 
perceived they were French, and I was nervous about 

speaking to them in their own language. ... .. 

As the day advanced I was struck with the familiar y 
exhibited by the passengers. A gentleman would ad¬ 
dress a lady beside him, a perfect stranger, w lth .,?°!? e 
remark about the scenery, which she answered with tne 
utmost cheerfulness, and there was that general freedom 
from restraint; and that confidence in each other s polite 
behaviour, the reverse of which makes our steamboat 
travelling like an assemblage of pickpockets, unac- 
quainted with each other, and suspicious of eaeh other s 

Seeing, not long after, a copy of one of Dicken’s works 
in the younger lady’s hand, I presumed to address her in 
English, which, to my delight, she spoke almost like an 
Englishwoman. There was an ease and grace in her 
manners, and her remarks were characterized by an in¬ 
telligence and a knowledge of the world, that rendered 
her one of the most attractive persons I ever met. She 
was glad, she said, to converse in English, and I was 
glad to have her. I was a stranger and alone, and hence 
felt more deeply her kindness in thus conversing with me 
hour after hour. An American lady might think this 
vastly improper and forward, but / shall remember her 
with grateful feelings as long as I remember the Rhine. 

1 She, with the elderly lady her companion, were to 
ascend the Rhine in their carriage, which they had 
aboard from Cologne, so as to get all the beauties of the 
ecenery. 


TIIE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


339 


XXIV. 

RHINE WINES.—COLOGNE CATHEDRAL. 
LOUVAIN.—BRUSSELS. 

I had designed to give a chapter on Rhine wines, and 
the vineyards of the Rhine, but will pass them over, re¬ 
ferring only to Prince Metternich’s celebrated vineyard, 
just above Geissenheim, between Mayence and Coblentz. 
The monks formerly possessed this extensive vineyard, 
covering filty-five acres. The Prince of Orange owned it 
next, and held it till it fell into Bonaparte’s hand, who 
gave it to Marshal Kellerman, in reward for his services. 
At the close of Napoleon’s career, it reverted to the Em¬ 
peror of Austria, who made a present of it to Metternich, 
the present owner. He has repaired it, and the Chateau 
of Johannesberg is now a very conspicuous object on the 
Ranks of the Rhine. The vineyards yield about forty 
butts of wine per annum, and it is called the best of the 
Rhenish wines. 

Cologne, independent of its sights, is an object of in¬ 
terest, from the part it played in Roman history. A 
camp pitched here by Marcus Agrippa, was the first 
commencement of the city. Vitellius and Sylvanus were 
proclaimed emperors of Rome here, and here also Agrip¬ 
pina, the mother of Nero, was born. It retains, to this 
day, many of the peculiar customs of Italy, and is the 
only city in the north of Europe where the Carnival is 
celebrated. I will not speak of the paintings it contains, 
or of the architecture of the churches. The Cathedral, 
however, I will mention in passing. This magnificent 
building was begun six hundred years ago, and still re¬ 
mains not half completed. It is of Gothic architecture, 
and had it been finished, would have been one of the 
finest edifices in the world. It was to have two towers, 
each five hundred feet, but they remain unfinished, and 
probably will to the end of time. The two things that 
interested me most were, the “ Shrine of the three Kings 
pf Cologne,” and the Choir. The former is in a small 


SKETCHES OF 


340 

chapel just behind the main altar, and is said to contain 
the bones of the three Magi who came from the East to 
lay their offerings at the feet of the infant Saviour, 
names of these three men, the chronicle states, were 
Caspar, Melchior, and Balthaser , and, to prevent the 
possibility of a doubt, these names are written m rubies 
on their own skulls. This shrine, with its gold and sl j ve J 
and precious stones, is said to be worth over two hundred 
thousand pounds; although bereft of some of its choicest 
gems during the French Revolution. 

The choir is the only part of the church completely 
.finished, and shews by its magnificence and splendour the 
extravagant designs of the first builders. I have never 
seen any thing more grand in its general plan and con¬ 
struction, and yet so exquisitely beautiful in its details, 
than this choir. I cannot give a better description of it 
than in the language of an English traveller. “ The choir 
is the only part finished ; one hundred and eighty feet, high , 
and internally, from its size, height, and disposition of 
pillars, arches, chapels, and beautifully coloured win¬ 
dows, resembling a splendid vision. Externally, its 
double range of stupendous flying buttresses, and inter¬ 
vening piers, bristling with a forest of purfiled pinnacles, 
strike the beholder with awe and astonishment.” Long 
before reaching Cologne, the highest tower of the church 
is visible, with a huge crane swinging from its unfinished 
top, where it has hung for centuries. Some time since it 
was taken down by the city authorities, but a terrible 
thunder-storm which swept over the place soon after, 
was believed by the frightened inhabitants to be in con¬ 
sequence of their wickedness in removing this crane. It 
was saying to the world, a we never intend to finish this 
church,” a declaration which set the elements in such 
commotion, that soon after an awful black thunder¬ 
cloud began to show itself over the trembling city. The 
lightning crossed its fiery lances over head, and the re¬ 
doubled thunder shook the very foundations on which 
the city stood. As soon, therefore, as it was over, and 
to prevent another similar, more awful situation, the in¬ 
habitants began to hoist this enormous crane to its place 
on the top of the tower. I could not but laugh, as I saw* 
its black outline against the sky, at the folly that had re¬ 
placed it there. It was the most deliberate humbug 
practised on a large scale I had ever seen. It was like 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE, 


Ml 


the Irishman vowing a hundred candles to the Virgin 
Mary, if she would save him from shipwreck, when the 
vessel was breaking to pieces under him. Said his com¬ 
panion to him, “ Why do you lie, for you know you can’t 
get them?” “Never mind,” he replied, <£ keep still, the 
Virgin don’t know it.” The Cologne people have acted 
like the Irishman in this respect—they have no idea of 
finishing the church, though a hundred thunder-storms 
should sweep over the city ; but they seem to think that 
if the crane is up ready for hoisting stone, the Deity will 
not know it. If they only look grave, say nothing, and 
keep the crane swinging, they imagine the blessed Virgin 
will believe that they design to commence building soon. 

Cologne is not so dirty as Coleridge makes it out to be, 
though it is a very disagreeable town to get around in. 
I will mention but one thing more in it—the Church of 
St. Ursula. It stands just without the walls, and is re¬ 
markable only for containing the bones and skulls of 
eleven thousand virgins , all slain in one great massacre. 
This is a large allowance even for a Roman Catholic tra¬ 
dition, which does not generally stick at improbabilities. 
It seems this St. Ursula, of blessed memory, in carrying 
her unusual quantity of virgins from Britain to Armorica, 
was driven by tempests up the Rhine to Cologne, where 
the Huns, in their barbarian fury, slew them all, because 
they would not yield to their lusts. To say nothing of 
this singularly large fleet of virgins, it is very curious 
they should be driven, by a week or more of tempests, 
through the Lowlands, up the Rhine to Cologne, without 
having once got aground or sent high and dry ashore. I 
will not, however, dispute the legend, especially as I saw 
several terraces of the bones themselves, or at least of 
veritable bones, ranged round the church between the 
walls. The skull of St. Ursula, with a few select skulls, 
probably belonging to her body-guard, have a separate 
apartment, called the Golden Chamber, and are encased 
in silver. But, seriously, I cannot divine what first in¬ 
duced this grand collection of skeletons, and their pecu¬ 
liar arrangement for public exhibition. It looks as if 
some battle-field had been robbed of its slain to furnish 
this cabinet of hideous relics. 

I went by railroad from Cologne to Aix la Chapelle 
(forty-three miles,) and stopping there only long enough 
to get breakfast, found no time to see the town. The 


SKETCHES OK 


342 

railroad is not yet finished from it to Leige, and travel¬ 
lers are compelled to go by diligence. The distance is 
about twenty-six miles ; and having an unconquerable 
dislike to diligence travelling, I determined to hire a car¬ 
riage. An English gentleman, standing at the door as I 
was inquiring about the terms, &c, said he should like to 
take a carriage with me. I gladly accepted his proposal, 
and we started off in company. I mention this incident 
to illustrate an Englishman’s ignorance of the United 
States. I had heard some of our most distinguished 
writers, male and female, speak of it in their en¬ 
counters with the English in their own country, but had 
never met any marked case of it myself. But this man, 
who spent every summer on the Continent, knew no more 
of the American Republic than an idiot. Among other 
things illustrating his ignorance, in reply to my statement 
that I was from New York, he said, “ New York—let 
me see—does that belong to the Canadas yet ?” I told him 
I believed not; that it was my impression it had been, 
separated from it for some time. “ Ah!” said he, and that 
ended his inquiries on that point. It was equal to the 
remark of an English literary lady once to one of my own 
distinguished countrywomen. In speaking of the favour¬ 
able features of the United States, she remarked very 
naively, that she should think the climate would be very 
cool in summer, from the wind blowing over the Cordil¬ 
leras mountains ! 

The view of Liege, from the heights, as we began to 
descend into the valley, was quite a novel one for the 
Continent. The long chimneys of the numerous manu¬ 
factories reminded me of the activity and enterprise of 
my own land. I did not go over the town, but took 
the railroad for Louvain, on my way to Brussels. I just 
gave one thought to Quintin Durward and the “ Wild 
Boar of Ardennes,” and we were away with the speed 
of the wind. I stopped at Louvain solely to visit the 
beautiful Gothic building of the Hotel de Ville. It is 
said to be the most beautiful Gothic edifice in the world. 
The whole exterior, in almost every foot of it, is elabo¬ 
rately wrought. Bassi relievi cover it—many of them 
representing sins and their punishments. The stones of 
which it is composed is soft when first quarried, and hence 
is easily worked but it hardens by exposure to the air. 

The next morning I started for Brussels. There is aa 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 


343 


airiness and cheerfulness about this city that pleased me 
exceedingly, and I should think a residence in it, for a 
part of the year, would be delightful. The impression I 
got of it, however, may be owing to the position of the 
hotel at which I stopped. Situated on an eminence 
near the park, the traveller may be in a few moments 
strolling through beautiful grounds, thronged with pro- 
menaders as gay as those of the Champs Elysee and the 
Tuileries. 


XXV. 

BATTLE-FIELD OF WATERLOO. 

The sky was darkly overcast, and not a breath of air 
disturbed the ominous hush of the atmosphere, which 
always precedes a rain, as we started for the great battle¬ 
field of Europe. My companions were an American, 
and an English cavalry captain, just returned from the 
Indies. We had been shown before the house in which 
the ball was held the night before the battle. I could 
imagine the sudden check to the “ sound of revelry 
when over the exciting sound of the viol came the dull 
booming of cannon, striking on the youthful heart “like 
a rising knell.” 


< '*Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro. 

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress. 
And cheeks all pale which but an hour ago 
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne’er might be repeated.”—i 


We followed the route taken by Wellington and his 
suite from Brussels, and trotting through the forest of 
Soignies, which Byron, by poetical license, has called the 
forest of Ardennes; came upon the little hamlet of Water¬ 
loo, situated a short distance from the field of battle. 
Our guide was a man who lived in the village at the 



Mi 


SKETCHES OF 


time of the battle, and had been familiar with all its 
localities for years. 

I have trod many battle-fields of ancient and modern 
glory, but never one with the strange feelings with which. 
I wandered over this, for here the star of Bonaparte 
set for ever. To understand the description, imagine 
two slightly elevated semicircular ridges, or, as they 
might more properly be termed, slopes, curving gently 
towards each other like a parenthesis, and you have the 
position of the two armies. On the summit of one of 
these slopes was arrayed the French army, and on the 
other the English. The night of the 17th of June was 
dark and stormy. The rain fell in torrents, and the two 
armies lay down in the tall rye drenched with rain to 
wait the morning that was to decide the fate of Europe 
and of Napoleon. From the ball-room at Brussels many 
an officer had been summoned in haste to the field, and 
shivering and cold, was compelled to pass the night in 
mud and rain in his elegant attire. The artillery had cut 
up the ground so that the mud was shoe deep, while the 
tall rye lay crushed and matted beneath the feet of the 
soldiers. The morning of the 18th opened with a driz¬ 
zling rain, and the two armies, benumbed with cold and 
soaking wet, rose from their damp beds to the contest. 
Eighty thousand French soldiers were seen moving in 
magnificent array on the crest of the ridge, as they took 
their several positions for the day. Upward of seventy 
thousand of the allied forces occupied the ridge or emi¬ 
nences opposite them—formed mostly into squares. 

In a moment the battle was all before me. I could 
almost see Bonaparte as, after having disposed his forces, 
and flushed with hope, he gaily exclaimed to his suite, 
now to breakfast,” and galloped away. The shout of 
“Vive l’Empereur” that followed shook the very field 
on which they stood, and seemed ominous of disaster to 
the allied army. Two hundred and sixty-two cannon 
lined the ridge like a wall of death before the French, 
while Wellington had but one hundred and eighty-six to 
oppose them. At eleven the firing commenced, and 
immediately Jerome Bonaparte led a column of six 
thousand men down on Hougoumont, an old chateau 
which defended Wellington’s right, and was as good as 
a fort. Advancing in the face of the most destructive 
fire that gallant column pushed up to the very walls of 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. 3 i 

the chateau, and thrust their bayonets through the door. 
But it was all in vain ; and though the building was set 
on fire and consumed, and the roaring of the flames was 
mingled with the shrieks of the wounded that were pe¬ 
rishing in it, the rage of the combatants only increased. 
But the Coldstream Guards held the court-yard with 
invincible obstinacy, and Jerome Bonaparte was com¬ 
pelled to retire, after leaving 1,400 men in a little orchard 
beside the walls, where it does not seem so many men 
could be laid. In a short time the battle became general 
along the lines, and prodigies of valour were performed 
on every rod of the ensanguined field. The heavy French 
cavalry came thundering down on the steady English 
squares, that had already been wasted by the destructive 
artillery, and strove with almost superhuman energy to 
break them. Driven to desperation by their repeatedly 
foiled attempts, they at length stopped their horses and 
coolly walked them round and round the squares, and 
wherever a man fell dashed in, in vain valour. Where- 
ever one of those ro«k-fast squares began to waver, 
Wellington threw himself into its centre, and it again 
became immoveable as a mountain. With their gallant 
chief in their keeping those brave British hearts could 
not yield. Whole columns went down like frost-work 
before the headlong charges of cavalry and infantry. In 
the centre the conflict at length became awful, for there 
the crisis of the battle was fixed. Wellington stood 
under a tree while the boughs were crashing with the 
cannon shot over his head, and nearly his whole guard 
smitten down by his side, anxiously watching the pro¬ 
gress of the fight. His brave squares, torn into frag¬ 
ments by bombs and ricochet shot, still refused to yield 
one foot of ground. Napoleon rode through his ranks, 
cheering on the exhausted columns of infantry and ca¬ 
valry, that rent the heavens with the shout of “ Vive 
VEmpereur and dashed with unparalleled recklessness 
on the bayonets of the English. 

The hero of Wagram, and Borodino, and Austerlitz, and 
Marengo, and Jena, enraged at the stubborn obstinacy of 
the British, rages over the field, and is still sure of victory. 
Wellington, seeing that he cannot much longer sustain 
the desperate charges of the French battalions, wipes the 
sweat from his anxious forehead and exclaims, “ Oh, that 
JBlucher or night would come.” Thus from eleven till 


SKETCHES OF 


34G 

four did the battle rage with sanguinary ferocity, and still 
around the centre it grew more awful every moment. 
The mangled cavalry staggered up to the exhausted 
British squares, which, though diminished and bleeding 
in every part, seemed rooted to the ground they stood 
upon. The heroic Picton had fallen at the head of his 
brigade, while his sword was flashing over his head. 
Ponsonby had gone down on the hard fought field, and 
terror and slaughter were on every side. The most en¬ 
thusiastic courage had driven on the French troops, which 
the rock-fast resolution of British tenacity alone could 
resist. The charge of the French cavalry on the centre 
was awful. Disregarding the close and murderous fire of 
the British batteries, they rode steadily forward till they 
came to the bayonet’s point. Prodigies of valour were 
wrought, and heroes fell at every discharge. Bonaparte’s 
star now blazed forth in its ancient splendour, and now 
trembled in the zenith. The shadows of fugitive kings 
flitted through the smoke of battle, and thrones tottered 
on the ensanguined field. At length a dark object was 
seen to emerge from the distant wood, and soon an army 
of 30,000 men deployed into the field, and began to march 
straight for the scene of conflict. Blucher and his 
Prussians came, but no Grouchy, who had been left to 
hold him in check, followed after. In a moment Napoleon 
saw that he could not sustain the charge of so many fresh 
troops, if once allowed to form a junction with the allied 
forces, and so he determined to stake his fate on one bold 
cast, and endeavour to pierce the allied centre with one 
grand charge of the Old Guard, and thus throw himself 
between the two armies, and fight them separately. For 
this purpose the Imperial Guard was called up, which had 
remained inactive during the whole day, and divided into 
two immense columns, which were to meet at the 
British centre. That under Reille no sooner entered the 
fire than it disappeared like frost-work. The other was 
placed under Ney, the “ bravest of the brave,” and the 
most'irresistible of all Napoleon’s Marshals. Napoleon 
accompanied them part way down the slope, and halting 
for a moment in a hollow, addressed them in his fiery, 
impetuous manner. He told them the battle rested with 
them. “ Five VEmpcreur” answered him with a shout 
that was heard all over the field of battle. Ney then 
placed himself at their head, and began to move down 


THE ALPS AND THE KI1INE. 347 

the slope and over the field. No drum or trumpet or 
martial strain cheered them on. They needed nothing to 
fire their steady courage. The eyes of the world were on 
them, and the fate of Europe in their hands. The muffled 
tread of that magnificent legion alone was heard. For a 
moment the firing ceased along the British lines. The 
terror of Europe was on the march, and the last awful 
charge of the Imperial Guard, which had never yet failed, 
was about to be made. The crisis had come, the hour of 
destiny arrived, and Napoleon, saw, with anxious eye, 
his Empire carried by that awful column as it disappeared 
in the smoke of battle. The firing ceased only for an 
instant; the next moment the artillery opened, and the 
dense array was rent as if a hurricane had passed through 
it. Ney’s horse sunk under him, and he mounted another 
and cheered on his men. Without warering or halting 
that band of heroes closed up their shattered ranks, and 
moved on in the face of the most wasting fire that ever 
swept a field of battle. Again and again did Ney’s horse 
sink under him, till five had fallen, and then on foot, with 
his drawn sabre in his hand, he marched at the head of 
his column. On, on, like the inrolling tide of the sea, 
that dauntless Guard pressed up to the very mouth of 
the cannon, and taking cheir fiery load full in their bosom* 
—walked over artillery, cannoniers and all, and pushed 
on through the British lines till they came within a few 
feet of where Wellington stood. The day seemed lost to 
the allies, when a rank of men, who had lain flat on their 
faces behind a low ridge of earth, and hitherto unseen by 
the French, heard the order of Wellington, “ up and at 
’em!” and springing to their feet, poured an unexpected 
volley into the very faces of that advancing Guard. 
Taken by surprise, and smitten back by the sudden shock, 
they had not time to rally before another and another 
volley completed the disorder, and that hitherto uncon¬ 
querable Guard was hurrying in wild confusion over the 
field. “ The Guard recoils!” “ the Guard recoils !” rung 
in despairing shrieks over the army, and all was over. 
Blucher effected his junction, and Wellington ordered a 
simultaneous advance along the whole lines. The Old 
Guard, disdaining to fly, formed into two immense 
squares, and attempted to stay the reversed tide of 
battle. They stood and let the artillery plough through 


SKETCHES OF 


US 

them in vain. The day was lost. Bonaparte’s star had 
set for ever, and his empire crumbled beneath him. 

Wellington met Blucher at La Belle Alliance, the head¬ 
quarters of Napoleon. The former returned back over 
the field, while the latter continued the pursuit all night 
long, strewing the road for thirty miles with mangled 

corpses. . 

And I was standing on this awful field, waving with 
grain just as it did on that mild morning. As rny eye 
rested on this and that spot, where deeds of valour were 
done, and saw in imagination those magnificent armies 
struggling for a continent, and heard the roar of cannon, 
the shocks of cavalry and the rolling fire of infantry, and 
saw the waving of plumes and torn banners amid the 
smoke of battle that curtained them in ; what wonder is 
it that for the moment I forgot the carnage and the awful 
waste of human life in the excitement and grandeur of 
the scene ? But let him who is in love with glory go 
over the bloody field after the thunder of battle is hushed, 
and the excitement of the strife is over. The rain is past,, 
the heavy clouds have melted away, and behold the bright 
and tranquil moon is sailing through the starry heavens 
and looking serenely down on the bloody field. Under 
its reproving light you see flashing swords, and glittering' 
uniforms, and torn plumes, and heaps of mangled men. 
More than 50,000 cumber the field, while thousands of 
wounded horses, still alive, rend the air with their shrill 
cries; and at intervals break in the mingled curse and 
groan and prayer of the tens of thousands that are writh¬ 
ing amid the slaughtered heaps in mortal agony. Dis¬ 
membered limbs are scattered round like broken branches 
after a hurricane, while disembowelled corpses lie like 
autumn leaves on every side. Ghastly wounds greet the 
eye at every turn, while ever and anon comes the thunder 
of distant cannon on the night air, telling where Blucher 
still continues the work of destruction. 

And the bright round moon is shining down on all this, 
and the sweet air of June is breathing over it. Oh ! what 
a scene for God and angels to look upon ! What a blot 
on Nature’s pure bosom ! Even Wellington, as he slowly 
rode over the field by moonlight, wept. The heart trained 
in the camp and schooled in the brutal life of the soldier 
could not endure the sight. But this is not all. Mourn¬ 
ful as the spectacle, and terrific as is the ghastly sight 


THE ALPS AND THE RHINE, 


349 


of that dead and dying array, and heart-rending as are the 
shrieks and groans and blasphemies that make night hor¬ 
rible, the field is alive with moving forms, stooping over 
the prostrate dead. Are they ministers of mercy come 
hither to bind up the wounded and assuage their suffer¬ 
ings, or are they beasts of prey stooping over the car¬ 
casses still warm with human blood? Neither. They 
are men roaming the field for plunder. The dead and the 
wounded are alike ruthlessly trampled upon, as their 
bloody garments are rifled of their treasures. And this ' 
is glorious war, where heroes are made and deified ! As 
my imagination rested on this picture, I no longer felt 
sympathy for Napoleon, as he fled a fugitive through the 
long night, while the roar of cannon behind him told 
where his empire lay trampled to the earth. 

But the suffering did not end here. To measure the 
amount of woe this one battle has produced, go to the 
villages and cottages of France and England and Prussia. 
Count all the broken hearts it made—trace out the secret 
and open suffering that ends not with the day that saw 
its birth—and, last of all, go on to the judgment and ima¬ 
gine the souls that went from Waterloo and its fierce 
conflict to the rewards of Eternity; and then measure, if 
you can, the length and breadth and depth and height of 
that cursed ambition which made Napoleon a minister of 
death to his race. His wild heart sleeps at last, and Na¬ 
ture smiles again around Waterloo, and the rich grain 
waves as carelessly as if nothing had happened. That 
Providence which never sleeps fixed the limits of that 
proud man, and finally left the “ desolator desolate” to 
eat out his own heart on the rock of Helena. 

The field is covered with monuments to the dead, and 
a huge pyramid, surmounted by a lion, rises from the cen¬ 
tre of the plain. One monument tells where the Scotch 
Greys stood and were cut down almost to a man—ano¬ 
ther points to the grave of Shaw, who killed nine French¬ 
men before he fell. The little church in the village of 
Waterloo is filled with tablets commemorating the dead. 
One struck me forcibly. On it was recorded the death of 
a man belonging to Wellington’s suite. He was only 
eighteen years of age, and this was his twentieth battle. 

I never was more impressed with the brutality of the 
soldier than when my guide told me that he himself went 
over the field in search of plunder, the morning after the 



350 


SKETCHES OF, ETC. 


battle, and all he could find among the thousands of 
corpses was one old silver watch. 

My companion the English captain would go and see 
the grave of the Marquis of Anglesea’s leg, which has a 
separate monument erected to it. The Marquis visited 
the field of battle a short time since, and had the pleasure 
of reading the epitaph of his own leg. Taking no par¬ 
ticular interest in the Marquis’s lower extremities, whe¬ 
ther off or on, I did not see this monument. 


FINIS. 


D, Sullivan, Printer, Dublin, 



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